Ron, Hermione and Ginny moved quickly through the quiet halls of St Mungo's, their footsteps muffled on the polished floor. The hospital felt different now—still, uneasy. The usual chatter had vanished. The corridors, usually teeming with healers and patients, were half-empty.
In the waiting area, only a handful of witches and wizards sat slumped in their chairs, each marked by some obvious wound or strange affliction. A witch with thick bandages wrapped around her head stared blankly ahead. Nearby, a wizard's arm twitched violently, his face pale with exhaustion. The only sound came from the soft rustle of pages turning as a few people flicked through old issues of Witch Weekly.
They approached the ENQUIRIES desk, where a plump blonde witch sat idly picking at her nails. She glanced up as they stopped before her, her face bored.
"We're here to see Rubeus Hagrid," Hermione said quickly. Her voice was steady, but her hands were clenched at her sides.
The witch raised an eyebrow. "The giant?"
Ron's jaw tightened. "Yes."
The witch yawned, stretching lazily. "Caused quite a scene when he came in. Barely squeezed through the entrance. Nearly ripped the door off."
"What happened to him?" Ron asked sharply.
She didn't lower her voice. "Cuts everywhere. Deep ones. Blood all over the place. Looked like he'd been mauled by a dragon. Didn't say much. Barely flinched." She shrugged. "Probably sleeping now."
Ginny's hands flew to her mouth. "Where is he?" she asked, her voice thin.
The witch pointed lazily at the double doors behind her. "Fourth floor. Spell Damage. Take the lift."
Hermione nodded and they hurried away.
They pushed through the heavy doors and entered a long corridor lined with portraits of famous healers. Candles floated overhead, their flames flickering weakly. The hallway felt hushed, a place where noise did not belong.
Their footsteps echoed. Hermione kept her eyes forward, her heart hammering. The thought of Hagrid hurt and helpless in a hospital bed was almost impossible to picture.
Ginny's whisper broke the silence. "What if it's worse than they said?"
Ron's face was set, but his voice was calm. "Hagrid's survived worse. He's raised dragons, made friends with giant spiders, lived in the Forest for years. He'll pull through."
Hermione said nothing. Her jaw was tight.
At the end of the corridor, they stepped into the silver-grilled lift. The doors slid shut behind them and the lift began to hum as it rose.
None of them spoke. The silence seemed to stretch forever.
Level Four: Spell Damage, sang the soft, enchanted voice.
The doors slid open.
Dozens of enchanted paper planes darted through the air above them, their wings stamped with the name BILL. They circled lazily, swooping and spinning in slow, clumsy loops.
For a moment, they simply stared.
Then a soft voice called from nearby.
"Hello, dears. Can I help you?"
A healer approached them—middle-aged, kind-eyed, her green robes swishing softly as she walked. Something about her presence settled the tight ache in their chests.
Hermione stepped forward first. "We're here to see Rubeus Hagrid," she said, keeping her voice steady. "They told us he's on this floor. Is he… is he all right?"
The healer's expression softened. "He's stable now. It was close, but he's holding on. Very brave, your friend. He's resting."
Ginny let out a breath, part relief, part fear.
"His room's at the end of this corridor," the healer said, gesturing gently. "Past the potions trolley, first on the left. You can see him, but please—don't wake him if you can help it."
"Thank you," Hermione whispered.
They moved quickly, together, hearts pounding, dread and relief tangled tight in their chests.
The hospital ward was dim and too small for its patient. The bed creaked beneath Hagrid's massive frame—his legs bent awkwardly, his shoulders pressed against the rails. Fresh white bandages wrapped his chest and arms, already marked with faint stains.
The moment they stepped inside, all three of them rushed forward.
"Hagrid!" they burst out together, the sharp edge of panic breaking into sudden, shaky relief.
A slow smile tugged at Hagrid's bruised face. He shifted, wincing, struggling to sit up. "Blimey," he rumbled, his voice rough but warm. "Thought I might've been dreamin'. Good thing yeh got my letter. Was startin' ter go spare, stuck in here with nothin' but the walls fer company."
Hermione pulled up a chair, her eyes flicking over his injuries as Ron and Ginny hovered at the bedside.
"We came as soon as we got your letter this morning," Ron said, his voice tight. "Harry—he would've come too, but things… they've got worse."
The smile slid from Hagrid's face. "Worse?" His brow creased. "He… he doesn't know I'm here, does he?"
Ginny shook her head, her voice small. "No. We didn't tell him."
She looked down, twisting her hands. "He's not… he's not well, Hagrid. He can't eat. He can't even stand sometimes. He's so weak. If he knew you were hurt too…" Her throat caught. "It would destroy him."
Hagrid was quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant, his chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths. His eyes glistened.
"Poor lad," he said thickly. "Didn't realise he was that bad. I should've—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "Wish I could see him."
Hermione laid a hand gently on his arm, her fingers small against the size of him. "You scared us, Hagrid. When we got your letter… Death Eaters attacked you? Please. Tell us what happened."
Hagrid shifted with a grunt of pain. "Yeah… yeah, I'll tell yeh."
Ron leaned forward, his voice low and urgent. "Was it near the cave? Where the Thestrals nest?"
Hagrid nodded. "Eastern forests, near the border. I'd gone out ter find 'em like yeh said, but didn't know exactly where till yer owl found me. Letter was a help." He hesitated, brow creasing. "Did yeh check yer owl this mornin', Ron?"
Ron frowned. "Pig? No—why?"
"He looked hurt," Hagrid said slowly. "Wing was hangin' a bit strange. Feathers all over the place like he'd been in a fight. I worried he might not make it back."
Hermione's face had gone pale. "You think someone tried to stop him? You're saying Ron's letter—someone might have intercepted it?"
"Could've," Hagrid said, his voice grim. "Would explain how they found me so fast. I'd just reached the cave when they came. Outta nowhere. Cloaks. Wands drawn. I barely had time ter grab the Thestral tail hair."
Ron's jaw tightened. "Did you see their faces? Anyone you recognised?"
Hagrid shook his head. "No. They kept their hoods up. But they moved like Death Eaters. Quick. Sure of themselves. Hunters."
Ginny's gaze dropped to the fresh bandages wrapped tight around Hagrid's chest. "How did they hurt you?" she asked quietly.
"Severing Charm," Hagrid muttered. "Two of 'em hit me at once. Caught me across the chest. Would've gone right through me if I weren't—well—built like I am. Still did enough damage. Blood everywhere."
Hermione's hand flew to her mouth. Ron looked stricken.
"I didn't wait to see what else they had planned," Hagrid went on. "Disapparated straight out. Barely managed it. Collapsed outside St Mungo's. Lucky I made it this far."
Ginny gripped the edge of the bed, her knuckles white. "If you'd waited even a second longer—"
"I know," Hagrid said quietly. "I know."
Silence settled over them, broken only by the faint buzz of candlelight and the distant shuffle of footsteps from the ward beyond. The air felt thick, as though the hospital walls themselves were holding their breath.
"Don't tell Harry yet," Hagrid said after a moment. "Let him rest. He's been through enough."
Hermione nodded. "We won't. But when he's ready… he'll want to see you."
"I'll be waitin'," Hagrid said, forcing a small smile. "Tell him that."
Ron's fist drummed a restless rhythm against the bedframe, his jaw working furiously. The silence stretched, then cracked.
"It was Malfoy," he blurted. "He's the one who sent them after you, Hagrid."
The words hung in the air, sharp and bitter.
Hagrid blinked, caught off guard. "Draco Malfoy?" he repeated slowly, as if testing the weight of it. "But why would he—?"
"Because he knew," Ron said tightly. "He knew about the cave. He knew where the Thestrals were."
"That doesn't mean it was him," Ginny said quickly. She kept her voice steady, though her eyes flicked between Ron and Hagrid. "You-Know-Who could've told anyone. We can't jump to conclusions."
Ron turned on her, frustration simmering beneath his skin. "I'm not jumping, Ginny. I'm following the only lead we've got."
He looked back to Hagrid, the words coming faster now. "Malfoy told Harry about the cave himself. And if he's betrayed Harry after everything—after what Harry did for him—"
Hagrid frowned. "What did Harry do for Malfoy?"
Ron gave a hollow laugh. "Saved his life. During the Battle of Hogwarts. Harry dragged him out of the fire. Risked everything."
His voice hardened. "And now that coward sends Death Eaters after you? After Harry spared him? I'd have left him."
Hermione cut in sharply. "We don't know it was him."
Her tone was calm, but her eyes were hard. "You always assume the worst. There's no proof."
Ron folded his arms, jaw set. "You always say that. It's like you want him to be innocent."
"I'm not defending him," Hermione snapped, her patience fraying. "But I saw him, Ron. He came to the Burrow and asked to see Harry. He was worried—"
"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Ron cut across her, scoffing. "Worried? That's rich. He's a Malfoy. He never does anything unless it suits him."
Hermione's jaw tightened. "Then why come at all? Why risk it if he didn't care—even a little? He knew Harry was vulnerable. He could've told anyone. He could've handed him over. But he didn't."
Ron dismissed her with a wave of his hand, as though brushing off a buzzing gnat. "Because he's playing some game, Hermione. He always is. Maybe he wants us to trust him—so he can stab us in the back when it counts."
"Maybe," Hermione allowed, her voice quieter now, her brow creased in thought. "Or maybe… he's trying to change."
The words hovered uncertainly between them. None of them seemed to know what to say next.
It was Hagrid who finally broke the silence, his deep voice rumbling, thick with quiet certainty. "Yeh lot've been through enough without fightin' each other. I dunno what Malfoy's up ter, but what happened ter me—well, that's on the ones who did it, not on yeh."
Hermione's throat tightened, guilt gnawing at her insides like a persistent ache. "We never meant for you to get hurt," she whispered. "We thought we were being careful."
Hagrid's lips tugged into a small, pained smile. "I'd do it all again. Every bit of it. Fer Harry. Fer all of yeh."
Hermione looked away, blinking hard. Even now—after everything—Hagrid's loyalty was as unshakeable as ever.
"How long will you have to stay?" she asked softly.
Hagrid cast a quick glance around the cramped room, as though only now noticing the too-small bed and the walls pressing in around him. "Reckon I'll be here a few more days. But, yeh know… folks get a bit twitchy when I'm around too long. Never quite fits, me, does it?"
He gave a short, self-deprecating chuckle, then rummaged in his coat pocket with his enormous hand. "Oh—almost forgot."
He pulled out a creased, slightly blood-stained envelope and passed it to Hermione. She opened it carefully, her breath catching when she saw what was inside: a single, shimmering strand of Thestral tail hair, fine as silver and glowing faintly in the ward's pale light.
"Hagrid," she breathed, her eyes prickling with tears. "This… Harry will be so grateful."
She closed her fingers gently around the envelope, pressing it to her chest as her heart ached with both relief and gratitude. "You should come back with us. He's missed you. We all have."
A warm smile spread across Hagrid's bruised face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'd like that. I'd like that very much."
Carefully, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, taking great care not to thump his head on the low ceiling beams. He reached for his battered pink umbrella—the concealed wand he never went without—and gave it a fond pat.
"Just lemme grab me things."
As Hermione stepped out into the corridor, she slowed, her attention caught by a familiar figure near the entrance to the ward. Augustus Pye. She recognised him at once—the same kindly Healer who had tended Mr Weasley during the war, his bright, good-natured smile still firmly in place, as though it were his shield against the lingering gloom of St Mungo's.
Ron and Ginny hadn't noticed him yet. But as soon as Augustus caught sight of them, his face lit up with unmistakable warmth.
"Well, look who it is!" he called, striding towards them. "I had a feeling I'd see the Weasleys today!"
Ron eyed him warily. "Why's that?" he asked, his voice cautious. "Why did you think we'd be here?"
Augustus looked briefly taken aback. "Well—aren't you here to see your brother?"
Ginny stiffened beside Ron, her smile faltering as cold dread crept into her voice. "What?" she said sharply. "Which brother?"
"Percy, of course," Augustus replied, nodding cheerfully, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "He was admitted this morning."
The words landed heavily, as though they'd been spoken in some language none of them understood.
"That's not possible," Ron said slowly, his face tightening. "Percy's at the Burrow. We saw him just—" He faltered, frowning. "We saw him not long ago."
Augustus's brow creased, his own confusion beginning to surface. "No… He's not left. He was found unconscious—attacked, apparently. I assumed that's why you were here."
Ginny stumbled back a step, her face draining of colour. "Attacked?" she echoed, her voice breaking. "You're sure it was Percy?"
"I treated him myself," Augustus said gently. "He's awake now. A little shaken, but he's stable."
Hermione's heart dropped, a sickening twist deep in her stomach. She caught Ron's eye, his expression mirroring the shock and unease twisting inside her.
"This doesn't make sense," she whispered.
"No," Ron murmured, his fists balling at his sides. "It doesn't."
Ginny's voice rang out, fierce and urgent. "Take us to him. Now."
Without hesitation, Augustus turned and led them quickly down the corridor, their footsteps echoing unnervingly against the cold stone. The sconces along the walls offered little warmth; the air seemed to grow heavier, colder, the silence thickening around them with every step.
"I don't like this," Hermione muttered, trailing her fingers along the bannister as they descended a shadowed stairwell. "Something's not right."
As they rounded the corner, Hagrid's hulking frame came into view, standing at the far end of the passage. He was stooped, peering through the window of a small private room. When he heard them approach, he straightened and gave them a sombre nod, his expression unusually grave.
Hermione's breath caught as she glimpsed the figure lying in the bed beyond the glass—red hair ruffled, skin pale and drawn. Percy.
He was sitting up stiffly, his gaze distant, unfocused, until it snagged on them. He started, blinking in surprise, and then managed a thin, faltering smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Oh—er—I didn't think anyone would come," he rasped, his voice hoarse and strange.
Ron's heart thudded in his chest. He stepped forward slowly, his words heavy with confusion. "We weren't expecting you to be here," he said carefully. "Percy, what's going on? What about the Burrow? Is everyone alright? What happened to you?"
Percy gave a weak, uneasy laugh, but it sounded wrong—forced, hollow. "The Burrow?" he repeated, brow furrowed. "No, I've never been. I mean—I meant to, but I've just never made the time."
Hermione felt her insides twist, cold spreading like ice through her veins.
Ginny stared at him, frozen. "Percy," she said, each word deliberate, her voice trembling. "What do you mean you've never been to the Burrow?"
Percy's frown deepened. "Dad told me about what happened—about Harry. I've heard he's unwell. I've been meaning to check in on him, but… well, work's been a bit much."
He scrubbed a hand over his face, visibly flustered. "I didn't want anyone to make a fuss. I was going to sort it all out on my own."
Ginny's voice cracked. "The Healer said you'd been attacked."
Percy blinked at her, blank and bewildered. "Attacked? I… I don't remember that."
Hermione stepped forward, her heart pounding against her ribs. "Percy," she said carefully, her voice soft but urgent, "do you know what year it is?"
He hesitated. "Of course," he said quickly. "It's… it's—" But the words faltered. His brow creased as he struggled to find the answer. He couldn't.
Hermione felt the breath leave her in a rush. Ginny's gasp sliced through the stillness.
Ron gripped the edge of the bed, as though he needed to hold on to something solid. "Percy… it's 1998."
Silence. Percy's mouth opened, but no sound came out. His eyes darted between their faces, searching, desperate.
"Something's wrong with him," Ginny whispered, her voice trembling, tears shining in her eyes. "Something's really wrong."
Percy's face crumpled in bewilderment. "I—I don't understand. I was at work… I think. I don't remember getting here. Where's Dad? Is he here?"
Ginny shook her head, her voice cracking. "No. We're here for Hagrid. He was attacked by Death Eaters."
Percy reeled. "Hagrid? But he's—he's harmless! Who would—?"
"We don't know," Ron said grimly. "But he's safe now. The Healers patched him up. He'll be alright."
Percy sagged, his relief obvious, his hands clutching the blanket. "That's good," he mumbled. "That's… that's really good."
Hermione watched him carefully. The room felt colder now, as if the walls themselves had drawn back, leaving Percy's pale form isolated and strange, as though he didn't quite belong here. Something had happened. Something they didn't yet understand.
"So—what on earth happened to you?" Ron asked, his brow furrowed. His tone held more confusion than anger, though there was a flicker of fear beneath it.
Percy shifted, agitated, his fingers twitching against the bedsheet. "I—I was in my office this morning," he said slowly, as if each word had to be coaxed from somewhere far away. "I remember sitting down to go over a report and then…" He paused, frowning deeply. "I think I heard something. A voice, maybe. It was muffled—I couldn't make out the words."
Hermione leaned forward, her eyes sharp. "Did you see anyone? Anything strange?"
Percy swallowed. "No. I don't think so. Just… this odd feeling. Like the room tipped sideways, like I was falling. I felt dizzy. Lightheaded. And then—nothing. Just black. When I woke up, I was here."
He ran a shaking hand through his hair, frustrated. "It's all a blur after that."
Ron's hand tightened on Hermione's arm, his grip almost painful, but she didn't pull away. Ginny stood frozen beside them, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her gaze fixed on Percy, wide and unblinking.
Percy's growing alarm was impossible to miss. "Wait—what's happening? You said I was at the Burrow earlier. But I've been here. I haven't left St Mungo's."
Hermione's eyes widened as a sick realisation settled over her like a shroud. "Percy," she breathed, panic rising in her throat, "this morning—you Flooed to the Burrow. We spoke to you. You were there. We saw you."
Her chest tightened, her breath stuttering. "Oh no," she whispered, slapping a hand over her mouth as the truth crashed over her.
Her wide, panicked eyes found Ron's. Found Ginny's.
Ron's face was grey. His voice, when it came, was no more than a rasp. "That wasn't you," he said. "Someone's pretending to be you."
The silence closed in, thick and suffocating.
Percy shot upright, his eyes wild. "What?" he breathed. "Someone's out there—right now—posing as me?"
The weight of it hit him like a blow. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, his breathing ragged and shallow.
Ginny gasped, the sound sharp, terrified. "Mum and Dad—Harry!" she choked, her hands flying to her mouth. Her voice trembled on the edge of panic.
Percy threw back the blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as pain lanced through his ribs, but he forced himself upright.
"I have to go," he said, already fumbling for his coat.
"Percy—wait!" Hermione called, but he was already halfway to the door.
"I'll be back soon, Augustus!" Percy shouted over his shoulder, barely noticing the startled Healer still frozen in the doorway.
"Harry, wake up!"
Harry jerked awake, a bolt of fresh pain tearing through him.
He couldn't breathe properly—his chest was too tight, his throat thick and swollen as if something invisible had lodged there. His eyelids fluttered, sticky and heavy, refusing to open properly. Every inch of him throbbed, inside and out, battered as though he'd been dropped from the top of the Astronomy Tower.
There was a low, persistent hum in his ears. Disoriented, shaking, he tried to lift his head.
Nothing. His neck wouldn't obey him. Even his heartbeat felt strange—too fast, hammering wildly, like it didn't belong to him anymore.
Where was he?
His blurry gaze fixed on the ceiling above—familiar, yet oddly distant. The Burrow?
Yes. He was in the Weasleys' sitting room.
But something was wrong. The house was too quiet. No ghoul thumping upstairs. No clatter from the kitchen. Even the gnomes in the garden were silent. The Burrow felt… lifeless.
His breathing faltered as he forced his aching body to shift. His muscles screamed. Even his fingers were sore.
And then he saw him.
Percy. Standing directly over him, motionless.
The crisp suit. The horn-rimmed glasses. The usual air of measured disapproval. But his face—his eyes—something was off. Too still. Too smooth. His lips were pressed into a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes. There was no warmth. Just… calculation.
"Finally," Percy said. "You've been out for almost an hour."
His voice didn't sound quite right. It was flat. Cold. Like a poor imitation.
"Wha… what…" Harry rasped, the words catching painfully in his throat.
Percy crouched, pulling something from his robes—a small glass vial, its contents a shimmering crimson.
"Here," he said softly. "You'll need this."
A Healing Draught. That's what he was saying. But why? Why would Percy wake him just to give him a potion?
His thoughts were sluggish, slipping from him like water through his fingers.
"Where's… Mrs Weasley?" Harry croaked, each word an effort. "Where's… Ron?"
No answer.
Just Percy, twisting the cork free.
Harry's pulse thundered in his ears.
Where is everyone? Why would Percy be here on his own? The Weasleys never left him without saying so. They never left him.
"Drink," Percy said again, pressing the vial to his lips. "You'll feel better."
The glass touched his mouth, but Harry clenched his jaw tightly.
Percy's false smile faded. His eyes narrowed.
"Don't make this difficult."
Harry struggled to turn his head, to push him away, but he was too weak—too slow. The vial pressed harder against his mouth.
"Stop—stop—" Harry gasped, but Percy was already forcing the liquid between his lips.
The moment it touched his tongue, Harry knew.
Wrong.
It was wrong.
The taste was sharp, metallic—burning.
He gagged, tried to spit it out, but Percy was already stepping back, straightening his robes as though the matter was settled.
It took seconds.
The burning came first—searing down his throat, spreading like wildfire through his chest. His stomach twisted violently. His vision flared white. His nerves caught fire, crackling as though lightning had struck him from within.
His arms convulsed, his legs kicked wildly, his back arched off the sofa.
And then the true pain began.
It felt as if his bones were being wrenched apart, his skin stretched to tearing point, as though something inside him was clawing to get out. His veins burned, his heart thudded and stuttered—then pounded furiously—then faltered again.
He screamed.
The sound didn't even seem like his own—it was raw, ragged, inhuman.
He slipped from the sofa, crashing to the floor in a crumpled heap.
"W-what… what did you…" he gasped, cheek pressed to the wooden floorboards, slick with sweat.
Percy tilted his head, watching him without the slightest flicker of concern. Then—he laughed.
Low. Measured. Chilling.
Harry dragged himself forward, one elbow, then the other. His legs wouldn't move. His stomach churned violently, but nothing came. His arms shook so badly he could barely support his own weight.
"Help…" he whispered, his voice cracking. "Please—someone—"
Percy kicked him hard in the back.
Harry screamed again, the pain tearing through him like fire. He rolled onto his side, choking, each breath catching painfully in his throat.
"You never were all that clever, were you?" Percy sneered, pacing now, his hands clasped behind his back like a pompous professor on patrol.
"W-what… why…" Harry sobbed, his voice ragged and broken. "What are you doing?"
"Fixing things," Percy said lightly. "Putting them back the way they should be."
Harry forced himself to move—if he could just reach the fireplace—just grab some Floo powder—he could get out—
But Percy seized him by the collar and slammed him back down, Harry's head cracking against the floorboards.
Stars burst across his vision. His breath caught. His heart faltered.
The poison clawed deeper, his muscles spasming, his chest seizing so violently he thought his heart might simply stop.
Percy crouched beside him, his breath hot against Harry's ear.
"I used to think you were special," he whispered. "The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. But you're nothing, really. Just another gullible little boy who's outstayed his welcome."
Harry's body shook uncontrollably. Tears streamed down his face, hot and stinging.
His hand flailed across the floor, desperate—scrabbling for anything—a wand, a weapon, a chance.
But there was nothing.
Only Percy. Watching.
The agony coiled tighter inside him—heat and cold stabbing through his ribs, curling around his spine, twisting his stomach until he thought he might be sick. His breath came in shallow, broken gasps, each one sharp as glass. His limbs wouldn't respond. His head felt thick, his thoughts sluggish and heavy. The poison was eating him alive. All he could do was endure it.
He wanted to cry out, to say something, but his throat burned and cracked. His fingernails scraped against the floorboards, splitting against the wood. His heart thundered—a brutal, punishing rhythm that felt like it might simply stop from the strain.
Then—the back door creaked open.
Harry heard it. Footsteps. More than one. Slow. Measured.
Pain seared behind his eyes. He forced his head up—barely—vision swimming, the edges pulsing red and black. The poison twisted cruelly in his gut, but he pressed his jaw shut and breathed harshly through his nose, anchoring himself to the pain.
A voice, thick and familiar, drifted in. Hagrid.
"Wha's happened 'ere?"
Harry's head spun. The words sounded distant, muffled, like he was underwater. His vision rippled, the floor tilting beneath him.
Then—Ginny.
"Mum? Dad?"
Her voice cracked, tight with panic. It pierced through Harry sharper than the pain. What had happened? Were they—?
"They're alive," Ginny said quickly, steadier this time, her breathing ragged. "They must've fought back—just enough before they were Stunned."
Harry clung to her words like a lifeline, but the pain dragged him under again. His stomach heaved and twisted, the burn spreading deeper, as though something was gnawing its way out of him.
"We need ter get 'em outta 'ere—quick," Hagrid said, urgency hardening his voice. "Could be more o' them nearby."
Harry tried to lift his head, to speak, to call out—but his mouth wouldn't cooperate. The poison had wound itself through his veins, cold and vicious. His limbs were too heavy to move, his thoughts sinking like stones.
And then—Percy laughed.
It was wrong.
Not just the sound. The shape of it. Hollow. Dead. A sound that didn't belong in this house.
Harry's head jerked up. His vision spun wildly. The impostor—that Percy—stood over him, smiling like he'd won.
The next thing Harry knew—a sharp boot slammed into his side.
He screamed.
Not just from the kick—though the pain burst through him like shrapnel—but because the poison reignited, scorching his insides, racing through his bloodstream like molten lead. His scream ripped out of him, raw and ragged—a sound not quite human.
Pain. So much pain. It was everywhere now.
Please. Make it stop. Make it stop.
He barely registered the sound of footsteps—gasping, wands drawn. He couldn't lift his head anymore. His world had narrowed to fire and shadow.
Through blurred eyes, he saw figures—Ron, Hermione, Ginny. And another Percy.
The real Percy.
Harry tried to speak, to warn them, but all that escaped was a strangled croak.
The impostor sat there—calm, composed—as though this was nothing more than a game he was comfortably winning. His legs were crossed, his back straight, a tiny glass vial turning lazily between his fingers, shimmering faintly with something dark and deadly.
Harry's heart pounded in his ears.
The impostor tilted the vial, watching the poison swirl.
"Fascinating," he said, his voice thick with mockery. "How just a few drops can unravel someone so completely."
Ron's voice rang out, sharp and shaking. "Who the hell are you?" His fury was crackling around him. "What did you do to Harry?!"
He fought against Hagrid's grip, thrashing to break free. "Let me go, Hagrid!"
The impostor gave Ron a look of cool amusement. "I poisoned him," he said mildly, as if discussing the weather. "And I must say—watching it work has been… a pleasure."
Harry heard Hermione gasp, but her voice was distant, like it was coming from far away. His vision flickered, black creeping in from the edges.
Don't pass out. Not yet. Not now.
A rough hand suddenly grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back, dragging a scream from his raw throat. White-hot agony flashed behind his eyes. His skin was ice-cold and burning-hot all at once. He couldn't breathe.
"I'm not the one you should fear," the impostor whispered, voice low and poisonous in his ear. "I'm just the beginning."
Hagrid roared.
"Don' yeh dare touch him!"
Harry heard the rush of footsteps—Hagrid lunging—but then a terrible silence. A pulse of thick, heavy magic filled the room.
The impostor didn't even flinch. Hagrid was frozen mid-air—arms outstretched towards Harry, suspended, trapped.
The impostor chuckled—quiet, cold, cruel.
Ron's wand sparked wildly. Hermione took a step forward, her voice trembling but determined. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, though a terrible sort of knowing was already creeping into her tone.
The impostor didn't answer.
Instead, he withdrew another vial from within his cloak—this one darker, thicker. Harry knew what it was. He'd seen it before.
Without hesitation, the impostor drank.
Harry felt the shift. Magic thrummed through the air, pulsing thickly, darkly. The impostor's body shimmered, twisted—red hair fading to pale blond, freckles vanishing, his features sharpening into something coldly familiar.
Hermione staggered back, horror dawning across her face. "No," she whispered, her voice breaking. "No—"
Harry's stomach lurched.
The face staring back at them now wasn't Percy's.
"Corban Yaxley," Ron breathed, his voice thin, hollow with dread.
Harry's gut twisted. Yaxley. He'd seen him at Hogwarts. In the Ministry. Always lingering in the background like a shadow.
"That's right," Yaxley said, his voice sickeningly calm.
Harry could barely keep his eyes open. His head was pounding. His limbs felt disconnected, heavy as stone. His insides burned—the poison still raging, scorching his veins.
Yaxley's voice sliced through the haze. "I rather liked the little spot you used to Disapparate from during your Ministry escapade," he said, almost conversational. "I've made it my own, you know. Very convenient. I assume you were too busy running for your life to go back and check?"
Harry tried to push himself up. His muscles screamed, his spine seared in protest. His body no longer felt like his own.
"G—Grimmauld Place… isn't y—yours…" he rasped. The words scraped against his throat, thick with blood.
Then Yaxley's boot slammed viciously into his ribs.
Pain shot through him like lightning. His cry was ripped away, his face smashing into the cold floorboards. Yaxley's laughter curled around him like smoke.
"Oh, but it is now," Yaxley sneered. "You've stolen from me, Potter. The Dark Lord's plans. His victories. His secrets. So now—I'll take what matters most to you. This house. Your friends. Your life. Piece by piece."
Harry could barely keep his eyes open. Each blink was a battle against the crushing darkness pressing in on him. He could just about make out Ron's furious shouts, Hermione's muffled sobs, Ginny's ragged breathing—but they all sounded distant.
"Get away from him!" Ron bellowed.
The rage in Ron's voice sparked something inside Harry—a faint ember, a flicker of defiance—but his body refused to obey. He couldn't move.
Yaxley didn't so much as flinch. "I heard Potter's dying," he said, voice light, almost amused. He withdrew a small vial from his robes and gave it a slow swirl. Its contents were thick, black, and glistened like oil. "Thought I'd help it along."
He crouched beside Harry, and now Harry could see his face properly—pale, gaunt, and alight with cruel satisfaction.
"This one's special," Yaxley murmured. "It lets you feel every nerve as it burns."
"No!" Ron roared. Harry heard the scuffle of feet—someone lunging—a wand raised—but then there was a sharp bang, and a crackle of magic that forced them back.
Yaxley's cold fingers clamped around Harry's jaw.
Harry tried to fight him, to turn his head, to push him away—but it was like moving underwater, slow and useless. His entire body shrieked with pain, but he couldn't stop him.
"Don't worry," Yaxley whispered, tipping the vial into Harry's mouth, the foul liquid sliding over his tongue. "You won't die just yet."
The potion was cold—then blisteringly hot—then everything at once.
A scream tore from Harry's throat, raw and guttural. His body convulsed, the pain detonating inside him like wildfire. His skin felt as though it were being flayed from the inside. His vision fractured into blinding white and rolling shadows.
There was no thought. No air. No relief.
Only pain.
Why can't I move—please—please—make it stop—make it stop—
The room pitched and spun. His ribs felt as though they were being crushed from within. His lungs burned, choked with invisible smoke. The screams echoing around him—his own? Hermione's?—were shredded by the roar of agony pounding in his skull.
And over it all, Yaxley's laughter. Distant. Cruel. Triumphant.
Then—silence.
Yaxley Disapparated with a crack.
But the pain didn't leave with him. It stayed, gnawing at Harry's bones, relentless and suffocating.
He lay there, spasming, his chest heaving in shallow gasps. His skin prickled and burned as though it were being stripped away. He couldn't form words. Couldn't move his mouth. Couldn't do anything.
I'm dying.
Hands were on him. Voices, frantic and close.
"Harry! Stay with us—stay with us!" Hermione's voice, cracking with panic.
"We've got you—just hang on—" Ginny's, thick with tears.
"Portkey—where's the bloody Portkey!" Ron's voice, wild, desperate.
A flash of red bolted past—Percy.
"Use this!" he shouted, shoving an old Witch Weekly magazine into Ron's hands. "Get him to St Mungo's, now! I'll deal with the Ministry—just go!"
Huge arms slid beneath Harry—Hagrid. Harry could feel him shaking.
"Yeh'll be alright, Harry. I promise. Just hold on—"
Harry wanted to answer. To say thank you, or I'm scared, or just please—but no sound came. The poison had wrapped itself around his lungs, tightening, unrelenting.
He saw Hermione conjuring stretchers for Mr and Mrs Weasley, both deathly pale and frighteningly still. Ginny knelt beside them, stroking her mother's hair, whispering something Harry couldn't hear, tears falling freely.
Then Percy's voice cut through the panic. "Everyone—touch it! Now!"
They all seized the magazine.
A brutal yank pulled Harry from the floor, the world spinning madly—a hurricane of light and noise—and then, just as suddenly, they landed.
The world tipped sideways.
Harry couldn't tell whether it was the corridor spinning or simply his own body giving out under the weight of whatever was coursing through his veins. The cold floor slammed against his back, but it felt distant—like he was floating somewhere just outside himself. Voices tangled together—shouts, pounding footsteps, rising panic—and then a fresh bolt of agony dragged him back.
His lungs wouldn't work properly. Every breath scraped like broken glass.
Someone was saying something about poison.
Poison.
His mind clawed through the fog, searching desperately. A drink? No. A spell? Had he been cursed? He couldn't remember. He couldn't think. All he could feel was his heartbeat, thudding wildly, out of sync, his hands grasping uselessly at the air as though he could tear the pain from his own body.
Everything was falling apart.
I'm dying.
The thought landed hard, cold and certain. His chest tightened as panic surged through him. He couldn't call out. Couldn't speak. All he could see were blurred shapes—people moving, wands raised, glowing hands—but none of it felt real. It was all just light and sound, crashing over him in dizzying waves.
Then the pain hit again, sharper this time—a white-hot spike shooting through his spine. A cry tore out of him, raw and desperate, echoing through the lobby.
It wasn't until heads turned that Harry realised the scream had come from him.
"Harry's been poisoned!" Hermione's voice sliced through the chaos, sharp and frantic. "He needs help—now!"
There was a stunned silence. Even the hospital seemed to falter.
Then a thin voice, half-disbelieving: "Harry? You mean—Harry Potter?"
Always that name, Harry thought bitterly. Even here. Even now.
"YES, it's him!" Ron bellowed, furious. "Now stop staring and HELP HIM!"
The air snapped to life. Healers sprang into motion at last, and Harry felt himself being lifted, his body shifting as though it no longer belonged to him. He caught fragments of urgent conversation, words too quick and clipped for him to follow. Through the swirl of faces and movement, he thought he saw Augustus Pye—pale, anxious, shouting instructions. A strange part of him wondered whether Pye ever questioned why the Weasleys—and anyone close to them—always seemed to end up in St Mungo's, as though they were cursed.
Perhaps they were.
Harry tried to speak, but only a choking noise escaped his throat. More faces appeared above him, blurring in and out of focus. His legs felt like dead weight. His hands were numb.
Don't let me die. Not here. Not like this.
Somewhere nearby, Hagrid's unmistakable voice thundered through the commotion. The sound of him—familiar, solid, real—washed over Harry like a wave of desperate comfort. But it also told him something else. Hagrid's here. It's serious. They know.
A fresh swell of panic gripped him.
He wanted to fight it. To scream. To hold on.
But the darkness was dragging him under.
In the room above, the air hung thick and heavy, like a tomb.
The silence pressed against Harry's chest, suffocating, though he couldn't tell if he was really there at all or simply drifting somewhere outside his own body. He could hear voices—pacing, the faint rhythm of breathing—but they sounded distant, muffled.
Ron's voice came first, rough and strained. "The Healers—they'll have antidotes. Loads of them. They can sort this—they have to."
Harry wanted to believe him.
But Hermione's voice followed, low and brittle, cold enough to make something inside him crack. "Even if they do… it might not be fast enough. Depending on the poison… the damage might already be irreversible."
Irreversible.
The word hit him like a curse. He fought to move, to reach them, to say anything—but his body wouldn't answer. He was trapped inside it, locked behind eyelids that refused to open.
"I… I think I know which one it is," Ginny said quietly. Her voice trembled, but she didn't falter. "If it's the same one I'm thinking of… he might not survive another attack."
A cold dread settled over Harry like a heavy cloak.
He was running out of time.
Across the room, Ron's fury flared, raw and uncontrolled. "It's Yaxley. And Malfoy. They're behind this—I know they are. And if I see them again—if I get my hands on them—Merlin help me, I'll make them pay."
No one answered at first. His words seemed to linger in the air, bitter and crackling with rage.
Then, softly, Hermione said, "Ron… revenge won't save Harry."
"I don't care!" Ron shouted. "He's in there—he's dying—and they're out there walking free! Someone has to do something!"
Harry wanted to tell him to stop. Not yet. Not now. Wait until I can stand, until I can fight with you.
But he couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe.
He was slipping further.
He could feel it—like water rising in his lungs. Like the room growing colder by the second. He tried to fight it, tried to call out, but the words stuck somewhere far behind his throat.
Help me, he thought. Please.
But no one could hear him.