Hogwarts had never felt so cold.
Not just cold in the way it always was in winter, when the draughts rattled the windows and your breath came out in little white clouds. This was different. It wasn't the wind that cut through you—it was something heavier, something that settled inside your chest and sat there, unmoving, as if it had always belonged.
The castle was too quiet. The usual echoes—laughter, footsteps, even Peeves causing trouble—were gone. It wasn't peaceful. It was wrong. Hollow. As though the walls themselves had given up.
The sky had been swallowed by thick, grey clouds, no moon, no stars, nothing. Darkness clung to the turrets, collected in the corners like it was waiting for something. Even the torches along the walls, usually bright and crackling, only gave off a sort of pale, half-hearted glow, like they couldn't be bothered anymore.
I didn't blame them. I felt the same.
I sat on the stone steps just outside the entrance hall, my knees pulled up, my arms wrapped tight around them. The wind clawed at me, dragging its fingers through my hair and tugging at my robes, but I barely noticed. I didn't move. I couldn't. This step—this exact spot—I'd sat here before. With Ron, who would toss his head back laughing over something stupid I'd said. Hermione, cross as always, telling us off, but her eyes soft at the edges. Ginny… her eyes finding mine, just for a moment, sending something warm flooding through me.
I could see it all, as if it had just happened. But somehow, it felt like it had happened to someone else. Someone I used to be, before I'd seen it. Before I'd lost him.
The stone beneath me was cold and damp, and it seemed to be pulling the heat straight out of me. I let it. Maybe if I sat here long enough, if I let the cold in deep enough, it would freeze the ache inside me. Maybe then it would stop hurting.
Dumbledore was gone.
Gone.
The word didn't fit properly inside my head, like I'd got the wrong puzzle piece and I was jamming it in anyway, even though it would never really go.
He couldn't be. He wasn't supposed to be.
Only hours ago, he'd been there beside me—tired, yes, his hand shrivelled and black from the curse—but alive. Still alive. Still Dumbledore. Still knowing things I didn't, still guiding me like he always did. He'd told me we were close. That we were on the right path. He'd made me believe it.
And now he was inside, lying still—too still—beneath the dark mark, beneath that terrible tower. I squeezed my wand in my hand so tightly my fingers ached, but I didn't let go. It was the only thing that still felt solid. The only thing that belonged to me.
Everything else felt like it might vanish if I looked away for even a second.
Behind me, I heard Ron's voice crack in the quiet.
"He can't be gone… he just can't be."
It wasn't loud. It was barely there. But it cracked something open in me anyway. I didn't turn around. I couldn't. If I looked at Ron, if I saw him fall apart too, then I would have to admit it was real. And I wasn't ready.
I didn't think I ever would be.
Dumbledore's body still lay where it had fallen.
I could see it every time I shut my eyes. His long robes twisted beneath him, his arms stretched out at impossible angles, his face… not angry, not peaceful—just wrong. As though even in death, he'd known this wasn't how it was meant to end.
I'd seen death before. I'd seen Cedric, Sirius. I'd thought I'd understood. But this was different.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
And the weight of it—it wasn't just grief. It was something else. Something that filled up every inch of me, that squeezed behind my ribs and pressed and pressed like it was trying to hollow me out from the inside.
People were crying. I could hear them. Soft, broken sounds drifting from behind me—students, teachers, people who had loved him, who had believed in him.
But I couldn't cry.
I sat there, frozen, clutching my wand as though it was the only thing keeping me upright. The cold pressed deeper into me, and I let it.
I couldn't cry.
Not yet.
Not now.
Maybe not ever.
Because if I did, if I let that happen, I wasn't sure I'd be able to stop.
My eyes stung. Burned. They begged me to let it out—to cry, to do something—but nothing came. Not one tear. It was like something inside me had locked up completely, sealed itself shut. As though I'd already drowned, and there was nothing left to spill.
I stared at my hands. They didn't look like mine. Scraped. Muddy. Shaking. I flexed my fingers, but they might as well have belonged to someone else. My whole body felt borrowed, like I was floating just above it, watching a stranger sit hunched on the steps while the world quietly cracked apart around him.
And in that silence, I waited for his voice.
It didn't come.
That was what hurt most.
"Harry…"
Soft. Careful. Hermione.
The sound of her voice sliced through the air like a blade, sharper than it had any right to be. I flinched before I even knew I was moving.
Her fingertips brushed my shoulders—barely there—but the touch jolted through me like I'd been scalded. I jerked away, breath catching hard in my throat, heart pounding in my ears, loud, too loud. I pressed my palms against my temples, hard, as though I could squeeze it out—the noise, the spinning, the feeling like the whole world was slipping sideways and I couldn't stop it.
It didn't help.
"Harry, please…" she whispered again, and her voice broke.
But I couldn't answer. I couldn't find the words. My throat was thick, blocked by everything I couldn't say—grief, guilt, the raw terror that I'd failed him, that I'd failed all of them. My thoughts were nothing but sharp edges, things I couldn't seem to hold onto without cutting myself.
Slowly, I forced myself to look up.
Ron and Hermione stood at the foot of the steps. Hermione's cheeks were wet, her eyes red and swollen, her hands shaking at her sides. Ron looked grey, like he'd been hollowed out from the inside. His mouth moved, but no sound came.
I wanted to tell them I was sorry. That I understood. That I wasn't leaving them behind. But the words were gone. They'd gone with Dumbledore.
Behind them, the castle loomed, dark and distant, the windows faint glimmers against the endless grey sky. It didn't feel like home anymore. It didn't feel like anything. The towers, once alive with light, now rose like gravestones.
Ruins. That's what Hogwarts felt like now. Ruins of something I couldn't get back.
I turned my head, slowly, towards the base of the Astronomy Tower.
He was still there.
Still crumpled beneath the place where he'd fallen. His arms splayed at unnatural angles, his half-moon spectacles askew, his robes twisted and dirtied. Still, I kept waiting for him to move, to stir, to sit up and tell me we'd made a complete mess of things and we ought to pull ourselves together.
But he didn't.
He wouldn't.
The lump in my throat lodged itself so firmly I couldn't swallow past it.
"Harry, we… we should go," Ron said, barely audible.
Go?
Go where? There wasn't anywhere to go. Everything had ended here—right here on this stone.
The thought of moving, of standing, of walking away from this moment—it didn't make sense. As though stepping away would mean leaving him behind.
I didn't know how to do that.
I didn't even hear Hagrid approach, not until his shadow fell over me. He lowered himself beside me with slow, heavy movements, like the ground pulled at him more than it used to. His huge hand came to rest on my shoulder, warm and solid.
"Come on, Harry," he said, his voice small, almost gentle. "Let's get yeh 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 in me, something small and certain, told me it would.
"I can't," I whispered. I wasn't even sure I'd spoken aloud.
And then—
Ginny.
She appeared in front of me as though she'd been there all along, crouching low, her voice cracking when she said my name. "Harry." Just that. Quiet. Almost pleading. "Please. We should go."
Her eyes found mine, and something inside me cracked. Just a little. Just enough to let it all in.
I turned towards her slowly, like I'd forgotten how my body worked. Her face was pale, streaked with tears, her hands trembling as she reached for mine. Her fingers brushed against mine—warm, real—and I wanted to be something in that moment. I wanted to be strong for her, brave like she thought I was.
But I couldn't even hold her gaze.
I looked away.
Ashamed.
Then the world tilted.
Nausea slammed into me so hard I thought I might be sick right there on the stone. My head spun, the courtyard blurring and folding in on itself as though the ground had been yanked out from under me. I staggered, tried to stand, but my knees buckled. My breath caught in my throat.
"Harry!" Ginny's voice, panicked, and then her arms were around me, catching me just before I hit the ground. Warm. Steady. Real.
I clung to her like she was the last solid thing in the world. My head pressed against her shoulder, and for one brief, trembling moment, I could hear nothing but the sound of her heartbeat. Steady. Strong. Alive.
Her arms tightened around me as I shook, my breaths short and desperate, ragged things I couldn't control.
I breathed her in—smoke, sweat, the tang of grass, and something else, something that was just Ginny. Familiar. Safe. She didn't speak. She didn't let go.
Slowly, we moved. Together. My legs were leaden, as though they belonged to someone else, but Ginny stayed close, her hand gripping mine tightly, as if she was afraid I might fall apart if she loosened her hold even a little.
I could feel the eyes on me. The courtyard had filled with students, but they gave me space—parted around us, careful, cautious, as though I was something fragile, something cracked that might splinter if they stepped too close.
I wasn't sure they were wrong.
Then, without warning, a bolt of white-hot pain lanced through my scar.
It wasn't the usual sting.
It was fire.
I screamed.
The ground smashed into my knees. My hands flew to my head, pressing hard, desperate to smother the pain, but it only roared louder. My scar blazed, searing through my skull like someone was driving a red-hot poker into it.
I was falling. Spiralling. And somewhere, somewhere deep inside the blaze—
I knew he was watching me.
"Harry!" Ginny's voice cracked. She dropped down beside me, grabbing my shoulders, trying to steady me. "Harry, what's happening? What's wrong?!"
I couldn't answer. Couldn't form words. Couldn't even try.
The pain swallowed everything. Sight, sound, even the sense of who I was. It ripped through me, wild and brutal, like waves crashing again and again with no chance to breathe between them. My lungs heaved, useless. My vision pulsed, black at the edges. I begged, silently, to pass out, to sink beneath it, to escape—
"Stay with me! Harry, please!" Ginny's voice broke, but her hands didn't. She held on tightly, her grip fierce and grounding, her trembling fingers digging into my arms. She was the only thing tethering me to the world. I clung to her wrists like they were lifelines.
The pain didn't stop.
But her touch kept me from slipping under it.
Something warm trickled down my face.
Sticky.
I pulled my hand away, dazed, and stared at my fingers.
Blood.
Dark and thick and wrong.
But it wasn't just blood—it was moving.
It twisted and curled on my skin, bright against the grime, forming shapes—lines, symbols—that flickered and writhed like they were being written by something inside me, something ancient and angry.
Hermione crashed down beside me, panting, her eyes wide with horror. "Harry—look at me!"
I dragged my gaze to hers. It felt like trying to lift a stone with my neck.
Her face drained of colour. "Your scar—it's not just hurting—it's—oh, Merlin—Harry, what's happening to you?"
"I—I don't know," I croaked, barely recognising my own voice. "It's like—he's closer. Inside me. Something's—cracking open—"
Hermione's hands hovered over my forehead, as if she wanted to stop the bleeding but didn't dare touch it. "We have to get him inside," she said quickly, her voice sharp with fear. "Now. Now."
"I'm fine," I lied, breathless.
They didn't believe me.
Neither did I.
And then the air changed.
It thickened. Soured. It wasn't just cold anymore—it was heavy. Suffocating.
Pop.
A loud crack echoed through the courtyard.
Apparition.
Pop. Pop.
More. Closer.
Screams—short, sharp, and then cut off—snapped through the air.
Silence followed, thick and sudden, as if the castle itself was holding its breath.
My blood turned to ice.
They were here.
I didn't need to see them. I felt them. Felt him. In my scar. In my bones. In the hollow part of me that had never really healed.
Voldemort.
He'd been waiting. Watching. Dumbledore's death had been the key, the last door flung open.
Every head turned.
And then—
He stepped into the courtyard.
He didn't walk. He glided—tall, skeletal, wrong. His robes trailed behind him like solid smoke, shifting but never fluttering. His skin, pale as candle wax, stretched tight over bone, and his eyes—those terrible, bottomless eyes—burned red in the dark.
Voldemort.
The sight of him sent a cold spike through my chest, freezing me to the stone where I knelt, useless, shaking, bleeding.
He smiled.
It was slow, deliberate, a twist of his mouth that dripped with malice. He wasn't in any hurry. He was enjoying this—savouring it.
I couldn't move.
I'd lost my wand—dropped it somewhere behind me, out of reach. My arms felt like they belonged to someone else. Heavy. Empty. My pockets were useless. I had nothing.
Death Eaters stepped forward, one by one, slipping from the gloom like spiders. Their silver masks caught the weak torchlight, glinting as they fanned out, surrounding us, their wands raised and steady.
They were closing in.
Ginny rose first. Her wand trembled in her hand, but she held it firm, stepping in front of me as if she could shield me from them.
Hermione was beside her in a heartbeat, her wand already up, her shoulders tight with fear—but she didn't move away. She wouldn't leave.
Neither of them would.
"No," I croaked, my voice thin and breaking. "Run. Please."
But they didn't run.
Of course they didn't.
I tried to get up. My arms gave way beneath me and I collapsed, my face scraping against the cold stone. Pain stabbed hard behind my eyes, the agony of my scar surging with every heartbeat.
"No!" I roared, the sound raw and ragged in my throat. "No! No—"
But it was already too late.
The sky churned above us, clouds twisting, heaving, like they were trying to tear themselves apart. The very stones beneath me seemed to tremble.
Voldemort laughed.
The sound was brittle, sharp, like shattered glass scattered across stone. His laugh echoed in the hollow places inside me, the ones I didn't dare name.
His eyes found mine. They didn't just meet me—they pierced me. They saw through me. Into me. Into every crack. Every fear. Every piece of me I wanted to hide.
And he knew.
He knew I doubted myself. He knew I blamed myself. He knew the flicker of hope I still hadn't let go of—and somehow, impossibly, that delighted him.
For a terrible heartbeat, I felt it—a pull. Like a thread buried deep inside me had snapped, and something dark was tugging me toward him. A part of me drawn to the shadow.
He wasn't just my enemy.
He was a mirror.
Of what I might become.
If I let go of the people I loved. If I let go of the light.
The night pressed tighter, heavy with magic, slick with menace. The air clung to my skin like oil, thick, suffocating. Every breath scorched my throat.
And Voldemort stood in the centre of it all—tall, cold, radiating a silence more terrifying than any scream.
Something stirred inside me. Ancient. Small. A spark.
I was afraid. But not only afraid.
There was something else.
A stubborn, flickering flame.
Weak. But still burning.
His voice came, low and smooth, curling through the night like smoke.
"Children wandering the castle grounds at this hour…" he said softly, a false sweetness winding through his words. "What a charming sight."
His smile widened. Not happy—never happy. It was cruelty wearing the shape of a grin.
And then—
Bellatrix.
Her laugh sliced through the courtyard like a blade. Shrill, wild, cracked straight down the middle. It rattled the stone, sharp and manic and horrible. She spun in place, her hair whipping around her, her wand alight with dangerous delight.
Students gasped. Some stumbled back. Others didn't move at all—too afraid to.
I could feel it—their fear, clinging to the air like mist. I felt it in Ginny's tight grip on her wand. In the way Hermione locked her knees to keep them from buckling. I felt it in myself.
Hogwarts wasn't safe anymore.
Not even here.
The pressure built in my skull—a slow, swelling weight behind my scar.
Then it struck.
White-hot agony exploded across my forehead. I folded, the pain roaring through me, dragging itself down my spine, wrapping around my ribs, tightening, suffocating. I choked, my mouth filling with ash.
Voldemort stepped closer.
Measured. Deliberate. Every step certain, like he knew there was nothing I could do to stop him.
He was right.
My wand was gone—spun somewhere across the stone, a useless thought now, like reaching for wings while plummeting to the ground.
Even imagining a way out felt laughable.
I could hear him inside me now—closer than he'd ever been. I could feel his shadow pressing into the hollow spaces Dumbledore had left behind.
He stopped in front of me.
Tall. Terrible. Pale as death itself. His face—if it could still be called that—was stretched too thin, a hollow echo of something that had once been human. His scarlet eyes locked onto mine, bottomless, inescapable.
And then the world vanished.
Hogwarts, gone. Ginny, gone. Hermione and Ron—gone. No sky, no stone beneath me. Just me.
And him.
"Ah," he breathed, his voice cold and sharp as shattered glass, "Harry Potter. Still clinging to hope, I see."
My heart thudded wildly, like it wanted to tear its way out of my chest. Every beat hammered against my ribs, a steady countdown to the end.
A sound tore out of me before I could stop it—a broken, raw cry. My throat burned. My eyes stung. I pressed my palms into the stone until my fingernails split. But it wasn't enough. Nothing could hold the pain back now—it crashed through me, unstoppable.
And then—I felt him.
His hand.
Cold fingers tangled in my hair, iron-tight, yanking my head back. My neck cracked painfully. I screamed, sharp and hoarse, as blood trickled hot down my temple, mixing with sweat and dirt.
He tore the glasses from my face with a slow, careless flick of his wrist. They dropped.
Crunch.
He stepped on them.
Shattered.
Like they meant nothing.
The world blurred, colours bleeding into each other. I could just barely make out the shapes beyond him—shadows where my friends should have been. Everything slipped away—my sight, my strength, my grip on myself.
His breath, hot and sour, ghosted across my cheek as he leaned in.
"You understand what Dumbledore's death means, don't you?" he whispered, soft and false, dripping with mockery.
The name sliced through me like a blade.
Dumbledore.
My chest clenched. My body locked.
And then the pain came.
He didn't speak the curse. He didn't need to.
Agony slammed through me, bright and blinding. My muscles seized, convulsing. Blood filled my mouth, thick and metallic. I couldn't scream. Couldn't breathe. I was burning from the inside out, every nerve on fire.
He stood over me like something carved from ice, wand lowered, expression void of anything living. No pity. No hesitation. Just endless cold.
"I can show you pain beyond your darkest fears," he murmured. Soft. Almost gentle.
Another wave of magic crushed me. It tore through my ribs, my lungs, my throat—like I was breathing shards of glass. Every breath carved new wounds. I wanted to cry out. I wanted to reach for someone—anyone—but I couldn't.
I could only endure.
And even that was slipping away.
The darkness welcomed me. Wrapped itself around me, pulling me under.
I was so tired. Merlin, I was so tired.
Then—
A voice.
Hermione.
"STOP!"
Her cry cut through the fog, sharp and desperate. For a heartbeat, I could breathe again. I could hear her.
"What are you doing to him?!"
Shapes flickered in the blur—shadows drawing closer. Ginny. Hermione. Ron. Luna. Neville.
They were here.
My people.
My family.
I wanted to tell them I was still here. I hadn't let go. Not yet.
Voldemort's head turned, slowly. "Can you see, Harry?" he said, his voice curling like smoke, almost amused. "Your friend wishes to help."
"You're murdering him!" Hermione's voice broke around the word.
Murder.
It echoed inside me. Solid. Final.
For a moment—I believed her.
Maybe this was it.
Maybe there was nothing left to fight with. Nothing left to give.
Voldemort laughed.
Not loud. Not wild.
Low. Quiet. Certain.
"Murder?" he whispered, tilting his head as though the word amused him. "No, no… not yet."
The pain struck again—deeper, sharper. Like lightning had torn through my chest and splintered every bone. My back arched violently. Blood poured from my mouth, hot and choking.
I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't see.
I couldn't tell where my body ended and the agony began.
I was falling, slipping beneath it all.
The world spun.
Sound stretched thin.
And I was slipping—
Further.
And then—I heard her.
"Please, stop!"
Ginny.
Her voice cracked straight down the middle—split wide open with grief and fury. So raw. So real. I wanted to turn toward her, to reach out, to say her name. To tell her I was still here. Still holding on.
But my body wouldn't move. My throat wouldn't work. The words stayed trapped, crushed beneath the weight of the pain.
Voldemort stepped back. Slowly. Almost idly, as though considering whether to finish me off now or savour it later.
His smile was the worst part. Thin. Serpentine. Cold satisfaction flickered across his pale face like a flame struggling in the dark.
"They think you're weak, Harry," he murmured, smooth as silk, slick as oil. "Are they wrong?"
I couldn't answer. I couldn't even lift my head. But I clenched my fists. Gritted my teeth. Bit down hard on the scream rising in my throat.
I would not break.
He leaned in again, so close I could feel his breath—hot and sour, thick with rot and old magic.
"Don't worry," he whispered. "I have all the time in the world to break you. This is only the beginning."
Blood slid down my neck in thin, sticky lines. My muscles trembled, locked tight as bowstrings. I was teetering—tilting—but I hadn't fallen. Not yet.
And then—light.
Red.
A spark across the darkness. A spell. A curse. A warning.
Voldemort turned, his attention snagged, just for a second. I collapsed onto the stone courtyard, the shock of the cold jolting through me. I gasped—a sharp, desperate breath—and dragged myself a fraction closer to the ground. Real. Solid. Here.
I twisted my head.
Neville.
He stood alone. His wand raised. His hands shaking. His face white as parchment—but steady. Determined.
"You dare curse me?" Voldemort hissed, venom dripping from every word.
Neville didn't lower his wand.
"Yes, I do," he said. His voice was thin, but it didn't falter. "But I'm still learning. Not yet, guys."
I didn't understand what he meant—but the words struck something deep inside me. Broke something open.
Pride.
Pain.
Love.
My throat tightened. My eyes stung. Not from pain this time—but from that. That kind of courage. That kind of loyalty.
Voldemort cocked his head, intrigued. "You command loyalty," he said softly. "Are they slaves?"
Neville didn't even flinch. "They're friends," he said firmly. "Real ones."
The courtyard stilled.
For a moment, there was only the sound of breathing. Distant thunder. Somewhere, a torch guttered in the wind.
Then Voldemort laughed—a low, dry sound.
"Shall I test their loyalty against mine?"
"No—" I croaked. I tried to push myself up, but my arms collapsed beneath me. Pain lanced through my ribs, white-hot.
And then—another curse.
Lucius Malfoy's wand flashed like a striking serpent.
The spell slammed into me, driving me back against the ground. I choked, agony bursting down my spine. Lucius's voice followed, cool and satisfied. "Not so fast, Potter."
I writhed, my mind screaming at my body to move, to fight—but I couldn't.
I was trapped inside myself.
Voldemort raised his wand again.
And then—Neville screamed.
The sound ripped across the courtyard. Sharp. Sudden. Like steel cutting flesh.
Gasps rippled through the students.
I dragged my head to the side, frantic.
Neville was still standing.
Blood darkened his robes, spreading from a wound across his ribs. He was shaking. Pale. But he didn't lower his wand.
He didn't back down.
"You'd do well to respect your betters," Voldemort muttered, almost bored.
"Neville!" I choked, my voice tearing in my throat. "What have you done?!"
Voldemort didn't even look at me. "Just a scratch," he said lightly, waving it away.
Neville trembled—but he didn't fall.
"What do you want?" I rasped. "You don't have to hurt them. Hurt me."
Voldemort circled slowly, his smile widening.
"Harry," he said softly, "it's not just me. Others deserve a turn. You do understand, don't you?"
Something hard and sharp blazed in my chest. My fear twisted, melted into something hotter.
Rage.
"I'm the one you want," I spat. "Leave them alone."
He paused, his red eyes glittering.
"Brave," he said softly. "But your friend crossed a line. He had to be shown."
I didn't answer him. I glared at him, pouring every last scrap of defiance I had into that look. He wouldn't get it. He wouldn't get the satisfaction.
Then—
His hand closed around my face.
Cold.
His fingers, long and skeletal, pressed into my skin like talons of ice. It felt like my skull was caving in beneath his grip. The scream tore out of me before I could stop it—raw, ragged, ripped straight from my chest.
"NO! STOP!"
The words weren't mine. Ginny. Hermione. I heard them distantly, their voices shattering the air. But I could barely focus on anything except the crushing, burning pain.
"Please—" I choked. My breath came in sharp, broken gasps. "Please…"
He leaned in, so close his red eyes swallowed everything else. They gleamed, bright and pitiless.
Not human.
Never human.
"Begging won't save you, Harry," he whispered, his voice soft and cold, silk wrapped around steel. "But it will teach you."
Then it hit me.
Agony.
Like drowning in fire. Like my veins were filled with poison. Like my bones were being splintered from the inside out.
I screamed. My body convulsed, back arching violently against the stone. It felt like he was tearing me apart, peeling away my skin, my soul, one burning layer at a time.
His laughter rang through the courtyard, sharp and bright and terrible—a sound not meant for this world.
And then—
Darkness.
Not the kind that comes with closed eyes.
The other kind.
Total.
Complete.
Like falling, falling, falling into a pit with no bottom.
Like being swallowed whole.
I didn't know how long I'd been out.
Time had… broken. Splintered. Slipped through my fingers. I floated somewhere dark and shapeless, where there was no before, no after. Only echoes. A low hum pulsed through my skull—a deep vibration, like the moment before thunder. The kind of silence that knows a storm is coming. Or maybe… already here.
Far off, someone was screaming.
High. Frantic. Torn straight from the gut.
Hermione? Ginny? I couldn't tell. Their voices were far away, warped by distance and fog. The world was smoke now. Shadows and static. I didn't know if I was falling or flying. Drifting or drowning. My body was gone—burnt away. All that was left was pain.
Pain, sharp and endless, carved into me. It lived in my bones now. In the cracks. In the marrow.
Then—
Something yanked me back.
Like a hook around my ribs. Violent. A gut-wrenching pull that slammed me into myself.
My eyes snapped open.
Cold stone against my cheek. Blood thick in my mouth. I coughed, choking on the taste of it. My chest heaved in broken gasps. My body shook, my skin still alive with the residue of dark magic, sparks flickering beneath my skin like glass about to shatter.
The pain hadn't gone.
It was waiting.
And then I heard it.
Sobbing.
Hermione.
Her voice cracked, sharp with panic and rage. She was screaming at someone—pleading, furious.
"Stop! Stop! You've done enough—he's bleeding—he's not even—STOP!"
And then—Ginny.
Not sobbing.
Not screaming.
Her voice was steady. Barely. Like a candle refusing to die in a hurricane.
I blinked, hard, and twisted my head.
She was standing.
Between me and Voldemort.
Her wand was clenched tight in her fists. Her arms trembled, but they didn't lower.
"You want someone to fight?" she spat. "Fight me. Or are you only brave when your victims can't stand?"
Something flickered behind Voldemort's red eyes.
Curiosity.
Dangerous.
"So much fire," he murmured.
Red light.
It struck her square in the chest.
The force sent her flying backwards. She crashed to the ground with a crack and a sharp cry that sliced straight through me.
Hermione screamed.
Ron bellowed her name—but Lucius Malfoy had him pinned, an arm around his throat, his wand jammed hard under his jaw. Ron struggled anyway, reckless with fury, every muscle straining to break free.
"LET ME GO! LET HER GO!"
Voldemort moved slowly. Calm. He walked between broken bodies and snapped wands like a king inspecting the spoils of war.
"Such bravery," he said softly, 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 eyes found me.
I tried to lift my head. It was like trying to drag the castle on my back. My whole body screamed in protest.
"You're not finished yet," he said, crouching down, his voice low and close. "There's still so much more you need to lose."
I dragged in a breath. My throat was raw. My vision swam.
But I found my voice.
"Do your worst."
His lips curled.
"Oh, I intend to," he whispered. "But slowly. A lesson… for all of you."
He straightened.
"Nott," he called lazily over his shoulder. "Your turn."
Nott stepped forward. Thin. Pale. His wand already raised. He was smiling.
"Crucio."
The curse hit me like a lightning bolt.
I arched off the ground, a sound ripping out of me that barely sounded human.
It didn't need to be Voldemort. It didn't have to be perfect. It just had to hurt.
And it did.
Every nerve shrieked. My bones felt like they were snapping open from the inside. I thought I might vomit. Or pass out. Or both.
"STOP IT!"
Neville's voice rang out, fierce and raw.
A flash of light—wild, desperate—burst from his wand. Nott spun, too slow. But Bellatrix was faster. Too fast.
She caught the curse in mid-air.
And laughed.
"Oh, the little lion cub wants to roar," she crooned, her voice dripping with delight.
Her wand flicked.
Neville collapsed, clutching his throat, gasping for air. He dropped like he'd been yanked to the ground by invisible hands.
Bellatrix strolled over to him, slow and casual, like she had all the time in the world. She raised her foot—
—and kicked him hard in the ribs.
A sound tore out of me. A sound I didn't recognise. Raw and broken.
I clawed at the stone. My fingers scraped uselessly against it. My arms shook so violently I thought they'd snap. I had to move. I had to reach him. I had to—
Inches.
That's all I managed. Just inches.
Then—
"Enough."
Voldemort's voice, quiet but absolute.
Everything stopped.
The curses. The screams. The sickening laughter. All of it vanished, like a door slamming shut.
Only blood dripping.
Only sobbing.
Only the sound of someone struggling to breathe.
Voldemort turned to me again.
"You still don't understand, Harry," he said, his voice… calm now. Not cruel. Not angry. Almost tired. "This was never about killing you."
His gaze slid away, distant. His wand lowered to his side.
"Not yet."
He turned his back on me.
"It's about breaking you."
His wand snapped up.
The curse hit me like a meteor.
Pain detonated behind my eyes—white-hot, total. My body crumpled, the ground tilting beneath me. I didn't scream. I couldn't. The sound never came.
Darkness dragged me under, fast and absolute.
The last thing I heard was Ginny's voice.
"Harry!"
It cracked, sharp with terror.
It broke.
Then—silence.
Then—nothing.