Arthur stood alone in the shadowy atrium of the Ministry of Magic, his footsteps echoing against the polished marble floor. The flickering torches along the walls offered little warmth. The place once so familiar—filled with hurried memos, casual greetings, and comforting order—now felt like the entrance to a labyrinth. Cold. Hollow. Watching.
He glanced nervously over his shoulder, half-expecting masked figures to emerge from the dark corners. Everything had changed since the Howler arrived. A message soaked in threat and hate, red-hot with fear. George—his son—was gone.
The lift doors slid open with a groan, snapping him out of the spiral of dread. He stepped forward but froze as a tall figure stepped into view.
"Arthur," said Kingsley, his deep voice both commanding and calm. He stood solid as ever—broad shoulders, composed face, sharp eyes. In that moment, Arthur felt something rare and precious spark in his chest: hope.
"I need to talk to you," Arthur blurted, too loudly. His voice cracked from the strain.
Kingsley gave a quick nod, already reading the tension in Arthur's frame. "I figured this would reach you soon. Let's talk in my office."
Without waiting for a reply, Kingsley turned, and Arthur followed him into the lift. As the doors closed behind them and the lift rose with a shudder, Arthur could barely breathe.
Once inside the office, Kingsley motioned toward a chair across from his desk. Arthur sat stiffly, his hands twisting in his lap. The room was neat and quiet, the chaos of the Ministry muffled beyond its thick walls. For a brief second, Arthur wished he could pause time.
"It's about George, isn't it?" Kingsley said quietly, not wasting time.
Arthur nodded, eyes downcast. "Yes." The word stuck in his throat like splinters. "We got a howler. Said he's been taken."
Kingsley didn't flinch. He leaned back slightly in his chair, lacing his fingers together. "I was notified not long ago. A contact in the Auror office caught wind of a disturbance in Diagon Alley. Death Eaters breached Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. I sent a team to investigate, but by the time they got there, it was a mess."
Arthur gripped the arms of his chair. "Percy went there—to the shop and George's flat. I told him to gather anything he could. Clues, messages, anything."
Kingsley gave a tight nod. "Do you know who sent the Howler?"
Arthur's jaw tensed. "Yaxley. He said we have until midnight. Bring Harry to the Forbidden Forest, or George dies."
Kingsley sat up straighter. His calm cracked slightly. "Where's Harry now?"
Arthur hesitated. "With Bill. Molly's with them. But Harry… he's unconscious. He's not getting better."
"What do you mean, unconscious?" Kingsley asked, alarm flashing in his eyes.
"The illness—it's worse. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny started some kind of healing process. A potion, and then… something else. They drank it, too. And now—now they're unconscious as well."
Kingsley's expression darkened. "A binding ritual, perhaps. They've gone into something deeper. Shared magic always comes at a price."
Arthur stood and began pacing, rubbing his temples. "They've been like that for hours. We don't know if it's working or killing them."
A sharp knock rang through the office, slicing through the tension. Kingsley moved swiftly to the door and opened it.
Percy stood there, pale and shaken. His red hair was windblown, his robes smudged with soot and ash. "Dad—"
Arthur turned toward him, dread slamming back into his chest. "Did you find him?"
Percy shook his head. "The shop's destroyed. Ransacked. And George's flat—it's empty. No signs of him or a struggle. Just… gone."
Arthur felt like the floor might give out from under him. He turned to Kingsley, voice cracking. "What do we do now?"
Kingsley stepped forward, firm but calm. "We do not hand Harry over."
"But they'll kill George!" Arthur's voice rose, raw with desperation. "You didn't hear the Howler. It was real, and it wasn't a bluff."
"I believe you," Kingsley said evenly, placing a steadying hand on Arthur's arm. "But we can't walk into a trap. Yaxley wants more than Harry—he wants chaos. We give in, and we all lose."
Arthur stared at the floor, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. "Then what? What do I tell my wife? What do I tell my family?"
"There's another way," Kingsley said. "We'll gather every Auror we can trust. We'll find out where Yaxley is holding him. And we will bring George back."
He looked at both Weasleys with quiet strength, his voice like steel beneath velvet.
"I promise you. We won't let them win."
The evening air was thick with unease, the kind that settled in Arthur's chest and refused to leave. Every sound—the crunch of gravel beneath his boots, the whisper of leaves stirred by wind, the distant hoot of an owl—seemed unnaturally loud against the silence he and Percy carried with them. The night was cool, but Arthur barely felt it. His thoughts churned with everything Kingsley had told him: George was missing, Harry was unconscious, and time was running out.
Percy walked beside him, silent, his face drawn and pale in the moonlight. Neither spoke. There was nothing to say that wouldn't make it worse.
Shell Cottage rose in the distance, its silhouette warm against the dark sea beyond. But tonight, even its soft light didn't bring comfort. As they neared, Arthur felt the weight on his shoulders grow heavier, knowing that inside, Molly was waiting—hoping—for news he wasn't sure he could give.
The moment he opened the door, the atmosphere hit him like a wall. Inside, the cottage was quiet, but not peaceful. It was the brittle silence of tension stretched too thin.
Molly stood in the centre of the room, wringing her hands. She looked up as they entered, eyes bloodshot and wide. "Arthur?" she asked, her voice already shaking. "Did you speak to Kingsley?"
"I did." Arthur kept his voice gentle, steady. He knew what she needed right now wasn't panic—it was something to hold onto. "He's going to assemble a team of Aurors. They'll reach the forest ahead of us and stake out the area before we arrive."
He glanced around as he spoke—Bill was seated near the hearth, his jaw tight. Hagrid leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. Slughorn hovered near the corner, fiddling nervously with the hem of his robes. All of them listening. All of them waiting.
Molly stared at him as if she hadn't quite heard. "But… we can't go without Harry. If we do—" Her voice broke, high and tight. "They'll kill George."
"Kingsley will try to negotiate first," Arthur said, though the words felt like thin parchment stretched over fire. "He's not going in blind. He'll look for an opening. A way to delay or distract. We'll be there. We'll be ready."
"But what if that's not enough?" Her voice cracked on the last word. "What if he's already—"
"We will do whatever it takes to get him back," Arthur said, firmer now. He stepped toward her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "We will not lose George."
Molly's shoulders trembled beneath his touch. "I can't go through this again, Arthur," she whispered. "Not another child. Not now."
"I know," he said softly. "Neither can I."
For a moment, they just stood there, clinging to that shared grief, that fear too old and too familiar. Then Bill rose, stepping forward.
"Mum," he said quietly, "Percy and I will go with you and Dad. We'll protect each other. Whatever happens."
Arthur looked at his son and nodded, gratitude and pride welling in his chest. Bill had always been steady, even as a boy. Now, in the face of danger, he stood firm.
Hagrid cleared his throat, his voice gruff with emotion. "I'm comin' too," he said, stepping into the light. "I won't let yeh go alone. I won't let them hurt another one of yeh. Not if I can help it."
His great bulk seemed to fill the room, but it was the sincerity in his voice that moved Arthur most. Hagrid had buried too many friends.
Slughorn spoke next, his voice more composed than expected. "I'll stay here. With the children," he said, glancing toward the rooms where Harry and the others lay. "If something happens—if they wake up—we need someone who can act quickly."
Arthur gave him a tight nod. "Thank you, Horace."
The plan came together slowly, through whispered conversations and the anxious rhythm of last-minute decisions. The air in the cottage felt charged—like a storm about to break. They packed what they could, readied their wands, and exchanged tight embraces.
As Arthur stood at the threshold, Molly beside him, he looked back once.
Harry lay still in the bedroom beyond, surrounded by his unconscious friends. Children, all of them. Still fighting battles the world should never have placed on their shoulders.
Arthur turned to the others. "It's time."
The group stepped out into the cold, sea-kissed night. The wind tugged at their robes. Without another word, they Disapparated into the unknown, their hearts steeled by love, fear, and the fire of a family that would never stop fighting for its own.
The chamber was cold and oppressive, its stone walls looming over Harry like the inside of a tomb. Every step he took echoed off the floor, reverberating through his bones. Ginny, Ron, and Hermione moved beside him, silent, their presence both grounding and unbearable. The air was thick—too thick—and Harry felt as though he were walking into a snare that had been waiting just for him.
His eyes locked on the centre of the room.
There, beneath a narrow beam of pale light, stood a small stone table. Upon it rested a dagger—slim and glinting, its hilt twisted like a serpent caught mid-slither. It shimmered like it was alive, calling to him in a language only he could hear. The pull was magnetic. He stepped closer, as if in a trance, heart thudding louder with every stride.
Then a voice broke through the quiet.
"Harry—wait!" Hermione's voice was tight, urgent.
He stopped, his jaw clenched. Not now.
Hermione's brow was furrowed, her voice hushed but resolute. "Can we talk? Please. Just a moment."
A surge of frustration flared in him. Why now? Why couldn't they understand that he had to do this?
"Make it quick, Granger," he muttered, not turning back.
Hermione hesitated, then spoke. "We've decided. We're not participating in the tasks anymore. And we think you shouldn't either."
Harry turned slowly, narrowing his eyes at her.
"It's not a threat," she added, swallowing hard. "But you'll die if you keep going. We can feel it. This isn't a game, Harry—it's a trap."
He scoffed. "What's so dangerous about this one? The last task wasn't even that bad."
"Except for the part where you nearly fell off your broom and passed out," Ron said, trying to sound casual but clearly anxious.
"You're all afraid," Harry snapped. "That's what this is. You're scared, and you're giving up."
Ron stepped forward, arms crossed. "You think we're cowards? Seriously? That's rich coming from the guy who's charging into every task like he's got something to prove."
"I do have something to prove," Harry shot back. "Because apparently, none of you believe I can handle this on my own."
Hermione's expression softened. "It's not about what we believe. It's about what we know. These tasks… they aren't just trials. They're testing your soul, Harry. They're meant to break you down."
Ron added quietly, "This isn't you, mate."
Harry froze. The words stung more than he expected. Not you. What did that even mean anymore?
"You mean this isn't the version of me you want to see," Harry said bitterly. "Don't call me mate. Don't even call me Harry. We're not friends."
His voice cracked on the last word. It hung in the air, heavy and final.
Ron stared at him, pain flickering across his face. "But we are friends. Best friends. You just… you don't remember it right now."
Harry looked away. That ache in his chest—the one he kept pushing down—was back. "Says who?" he whispered.
"Me," Ron said softly. "And her." He nodded toward Hermione. "And Ginny. We all remember you. You're the one who's forgetting."
Harry's throat tightened. He didn't want to hear this. He didn't want to feel it. He turned away, his eyes snapping back to the dagger.
"I don't need you," he muttered. "Any of you."
Hermione took a cautious step forward. "Harry, listen to yourself. You're not thinking clearly. This isn't just about completing some challenge—it's about your mind, your soul. We're trying to protect you."
"Protect me?" Harry laughed hollowly. "What's the point of being protected if I'm not allowed to live?"
"You are living, Harry," Ginny said, her voice cutting through the tension. She moved to stand beside Hermione, her expression pained but firm. "This isn't really you. This place—these trials—they're messing with your head. Twisting who you are."
He glared at her. "Yeah? Tell me something I don't know."
Ginny didn't back down. "The real you… you'd never push people away like this. You'd never use power to isolate yourself. You're kind. Brave. Selfless. That's the Harry we love."
Harry's jaw clenched. Those words—love, bravery, selflessness—they didn't belong to him. Not anymore. He didn't feel them.
"You think saying all that is going to change anything?" he asked, voice low. "You think words are enough?"
Ron's voice was quiet but sure. "We're not trying to convince you with words. We're just reminding you of what's already inside."
Hermione nodded. "We know you, Harry. You've risked everything for others. You've fought against impossible odds. You've made friendships with people society tried to cast aside—werewolves, half-giants, Muggleborns, and house-elves. That's who you are."
Harry stared at the dagger. His hands trembled. Why couldn't he block them out? Why did their voices still matter?
"You can still walk away from this," Ginny said gently. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone. Not to us. Not to whoever designed these twisted trials."
"I'm tired of being told who I am," Harry muttered.
"Then remember it for yourself," Hermione said. "We just want you to want to come back."
The dagger glinted in the silence.
Harry didn't move. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff—one more step and he wouldn't be able to return.
Yet beneath his facade, a flicker of curiosity ignited. Was there truth in their statements, or were they simply projected images of the mended Harry they wished him to be?
For a long moment, none of them spoke.
Then, quietly, Ron added, "If you fall, we fall with you. That's the deal, isn't it?"
Harry stood frozen, the weight of Ron's words settling over him like dust on forgotten memories.
If you fall, we fall with you.
Something in that hit too close—too real. He didn't want it to matter. Didn't want to let it in. But it lodged itself there, inside the parts of him he couldn't quite numb.
"You've battled dark wizards," Ron continued, his voice a careful blend of nostalgia and conviction. "Dementors, Death Eaters, Inferi—the worst of it. And you defeated Voldemort." He said it casually, like it was a footnote. Like it was his story.
Harry blinked. "Voldemort?"
The name rang hollow. A shape without meaning. A name tattooed across a life he didn't remember.
Ron paused, visibly shaken. "A dark wizard. The one who—he's the one who killed your parents. When you were a baby."
Harry flinched.
There was no image—no memory to match the words—but something surged through him anyway. A wave of heat, grief, and fury. Not logical. Not controllable. Just there, boiling up from somewhere he couldn't name.
"That's enough!" he snapped, his voice sharp with disbelief and something more dangerous underneath. "I won't stand here and listen to more of your stories."
Ron looked genuinely confused. "I wasn't trying to upset you. I was just getting to the exciting—"
"The exciting part?" Harry cut in, his tone like steel, eyes burning. "Is that what I am to you? Some tragic tale? A lost orphan with a fondness for strays and half-breeds?" His gaze flicked to Hermione, who stood in silence, her face soft with pity. It made him recoil. "How many more lies do you have prepared? How many more versions of me do you want me to play?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned, his body moving faster than his thoughts. The anger was armour. It always had been.
Hermione called after him—his name, again and again—but he didn't look back. He didn't want to look back. If he did, he might see the fear in her eyes. Or worse—hope.
The cold of the chamber deepened as he neared the table again. Then—suddenly—he felt it: a shift in the air. A push, unseen but forceful, like magic coiled into a wall.
A blast of wind surged between him and the others.
He spun around just in time to see Hermione flung back with a cry, landing hard on the stone floor.
A thick mist began to rise from the ground, curling like smoke. It thickened into a barrier between him and the others—trapping them on one side, isolating him on the other.
"Hermione!" he called, panic bubbling beneath his anger.
"I didn't do anything!" she shouted, struggling to her feet. Her palms slammed against the barrier, eyes wide with fear. "Harry, please—stay with us!"
Her voice sounded far away now, muffled, like they were on the other side of glass. He stepped forward, but the fog pressed against him, humming with dangerous energy. It wasn't just magic—it was something sentient, something that watched.
He turned toward the table again.
There, where the dagger had once been, now lay something else. Something far more familiar.
A basilisk fang.
Its surface gleamed faintly in the low light. He could almost feel the venom inside it, coiled and waiting. It called to him in a voice like his own, whispering not in words but in feeling. Power. Clarity. Release.
Harry's hand hovered near it.
And then, the mist shifted.
From the fog, a figure began to form.
It rose slowly—first a blur of shadow, then something more solid. Human-shaped. Slender. Familiar. A mess of wild black hair. Pale skin. Eyes that mirrored his own—but empty, afraid, hollow.
It was him.
Or a version of him.
He couldn't look away. The figure's shoulders were hunched, as if the world had crushed them one too many times. Its gaze flicked up and locked with his.
There was no malice in it.
Only despair.
"Harry?" Ron's voice came from the other side of the mist, muffled but urgent. "What is that? What are we seeing?"
Harry couldn't answer.
The thing in front of him—this broken, gaunt reflection—lifted its hand. Slowly. As if inviting him forward. As if begging him to come closer. There was something fragile in the gesture. Something pleading.
Harry's breath caught.
Was this what he was becoming? Or what he was trying not to be?
A silent warning echoed in his chest.
This is not your path.
"Don't take its hand!" Ron shouted, louder now. "Harry, don't! Something's wrong!"
"Get back to us!" Ginny cried, her voice cracking. "Please, Harry, just come back!"
Hermione slammed her hands against the barrier again, eyes wet and shining. "Don't do this! You're stronger than this! It's not real—it's not you!"
But it felt real. It felt like the part of him he'd been denying for a while—the part filled with confusion and rage and loneliness. The part that believed he didn't belong with them anymore.
And yet…
Something inside him recoiled from that version of himself.
He didn't want to become that.
He didn't want to disappear.
His hand dropped.
The figure across from him stilled—its expression unreadable.
Harry stepped back from the table.
And through the mist, he could just barely make out three silhouettes—hands still pressed to the barrier. Still waiting for him.
Still believing.
But something in him—some terrible, reckless part—overpowered the rest.
Just one touch.
Harry's hand trembled as it reached forward, his fingertips brushing the figure's cold, translucent skin. The sensation was instant and unnatural—like plunging his arm into ice water laced with smoke—and the moment contact sparked, the world around him fractured.
Reality dissolved into flickering images—flashes—like lightning against the back of his eyelids. But this was no dream.
These were memories.
And they were his.
They flooded him all at once, crashing into his mind with the force of a tidal wave. Searing. Suffocating. Scenes of anguish and loneliness, too vivid to be imagined, clawed their way to the surface. Pain he didn't remember having—until now.
He gasped and stumbled back, but the vision held him fast, like invisible chains anchoring him in place. Somewhere beyond the fog, he thought he heard Ron shouting, Hermione crying out—but the voices were distant, fading into the storm of noise and sorrow in his own mind.
Then: clarity.
A small backyard. Trimmed hedges. A square of grass that looked more like a cage than a refuge.
There—a boy with black hair and glasses, his face, only younger. Frailer. More alone. He was dodging wild, clumsy swings from Dudley, who charged at him with a stick as if the whole thing was a game. Except the boy—Harry—wasn't playing. Fear twisted his face. Not just fear—resignation.
Aunt Petunia's shrill voice cut through the scene like a whip.
"Get up! Now!"
Harry flinched. Not the memory version—this Harry, the one watching. Her voice struck something buried deep in his chest. Something old and bruised.
Then Vernon—red-faced, shouting. "Cupboard. No meal."
The cupboard.
It came back to him all at once: the dark, narrow space. Dusty, claustrophobic. The smell of cleaning fluid. The sound of the lock turning. His heart lurched. This was his childhood—this had happened. Why hadn't he remembered it until now?
Why had he forgotten?
He clenched his fists, helpless. He wanted to reach into the scene, to pull that boy—himself—away. To scream at Petunia and Vernon. To drag Dudley off by the collar. But the memory rolled on, unbothered by his fury.
Suddenly, the image rippled—shifted.
Now Draco Malfoy stood in its place. Smirking. Confident. Surrounded by his gang.
"Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting on the train back to the Muggles?"
Harry's jaw tensed. The words echoed painfully—ones he'd heard before, laughed off before. But watching them directed at this other Harry—this boy still reeling from years in the cupboard—it felt different. Vicious. Personal.
Another scene followed, crueller still.
"You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor Quidditch team?" Draco sneered. "It's people they feel sorry for. Like Potter. No parents, poor thing…"
The sting was sharp. Harry wanted to shout, to tell that version of himself not to listen. That those words were lies. That he mattered. But the boy in the memory just stood there, absorbing the blow like he expected it. Like he thought it was true.
The scene dissolved again.
Now it was Snape—looming, sour-faced, robes billowing.
"Fame clearly isn't everything," he sneered at the boy who sat defensively at his desk.
Then another flash—another memory. Snape in full venom: "Why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? That's another point you've lost for Gryffindor!"
Harry stared, heart pounding.
"That's not him," he muttered. "He's not like that."
But even as he said it, he knew the truth—this Snape was. Cold. Cruel. Unforgiving. Nothing like the man Harry had come to know—the one who had protected him, guided him, and even loved him in some broken, quiet way.
The contrast struck deep.
His Snape had stood for him.
This one… crushed him.
The memory twisted again, darker now.
And then—
Pain.
A girl's voice—cold and satisfied. "Yes, it hurts, doesn't it?"
Dolores Umbridge.
The quill etched words into the back of the other Harry's hand, again and again. I must not tell lies.
Harry recoiled in horror. He felt sick.
The boy's face contorted in silent agony, his lips pressed together, refusing to cry out. But the blood welled, red and sharp.
"Stop it," Harry whispered. "Stop it, please…"
The scene didn't end. It lingered, forcing him to watch. To feel it. His breath came shallow. Every part of him screamed to escape, to shut it out, to retreat into the safety of forgetting—but that part of him was losing.
And somewhere beneath the pain… was guilt.
This had happened.
Not in this world, maybe. But somewhere. To him. A version of him that had suffered more than he ever had, stripped of love and dignity, pushed down again and again until all he had left was anger and endurance.
And yet, through it all, he had survived.
Harry's legs buckled, and he leaned against the table, shaking. His mind was in tatters, torn between sorrow and rage.
But as the final images began to fade, he found himself holding on to something else—something small, but steady.
He had endured.
They had endured.
And maybe that was the point.
The chamber pulsed like a living thing.
Harry staggered under the weight of the memory—another one, as vivid and relentless as the last. This time he stood in a great hall packed with sneering faces. Their eyes weren't curious or admiring—they were accusing. Judging. Condemning.
"Liar!"
The chant swelled like a tide, crashing over the version of Harry standing in their centre—alone, spine stiff with defiance even as shame burnt across his face. The crowd jeered with all the cruelty of those who'd rather hate than understand.
And yet…
Harry's gaze narrowed.
They're afraid. Not just of him, but of what he knew. Their hatred felt rehearsed—like it was instructed. They moved like puppets, their words sharpened by someone else's hand. Someone behind the curtain.
Manipulated.
Used.
The thought coiled in his mind, growing thorns. What if the scorn they hurled was never really about truth or lies but control? What if they feared him not because he'd deceived them—but because he hadn't?
Before he could pull apart the idea, another scene slammed into him with vicious force.
A mad grin. A whirling, magical eye. A scarred face bent close.
"Who put your name in the Goblet of Fire under the name of a different school? I did," the man declared, and then the face melted, reshaping itself into one he recognised with a jolt of horror—Barty Crouch Jr.
Harry's chest tightened.
He'd heard of Triwizard Tournaments, sure—competitions of magical prowess. But this one wasn't sport. It was warfare. The other Harry had been pulled into it, targeted, used as a pawn in some twisted game where death lurked in every task.
And somehow… he'd survived it.
Was this what had earned him fame in that world?
The question hung in Harry's mind. Fame born of suffering. Recognition paid for in blood.
More memories surged.
"Sirius is being tortured NOW!" the other Harry had screamed, desperation and panic tearing through his voice like glass.
Hermione—trembling, pale—had tried to stop him. "But if this is a trick of V-Voldemort's—"
Then—impact. A moment so brutal, Harry staggered as if it had hit him physically.
A black veil. A stone archway. Sirius Black, falling through it. Gone.
And the boy—himself—had fallen to the floor, broken open by the moment.
Harry pressed a hand to his chest. It ached. That loss—the ache of it lived somewhere just beneath the surface now. He'd never met this Sirius, but the weight of losing him settled in like grief that didn't belong to him… yet felt real all the same.
Then—
"Crucio!"
The sound of Voldemort's voice was unmistakable. It rippled through Harry's bones like a death knell.
He saw his other self writhing in pain. Heard the cries. Felt them, somehow. Voldemort stood tall and pitiless, his wand a weapon of desecration.
The pain didn't stop there.
"You won't say no?" Voldemort hissed. "Obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before you die… Perhaps another little dose of pain?"
Harry watched the green glow flash, claiming life after life. He recoiled. The horror was relentless. It felt endless. The weight of every soul Voldemort had broken or stolen bore down on him.
Then—quiet.
A final memory flickered into view. The setting was still and sterile. Candlelight danced over rows of glass vials. The air smelt of iron and age.
"Professor," the other Harry asked quietly, standing before a short man with a walrus moustache and sad, ancient eyes, "is there any way to cleanse a corrupted soul?"
The silence that followed felt colder than any curse.
"There has been no documented case," the professor said grimly. "A tainted soul will only deteriorate… leading to a painful death."
Harry's breath caught.
It was said so plainly. So… finally.
No second chances.
Tears sprang to his eyes—tears for the boy who had asked that question, who had stood there with hope trembling on the edge of ruin.
And in the next moment, the shadow realm shattered.
He was back.
The dim chamber returned. The chill of the stone, the glint of the basilisk fang. The figure—his other self—stood before him once more. Hollow-eyed. Detached. A ghost wearing his face.
Their gazes locked.
"Now that you've witnessed both worlds," the other Harry said, voice flat as slate, "which path will you choose?"
The words hit like a blow.
Harry's heart pounded. The question wasn't just about two realities. It was about who he was. Who he couldbe. Was he the Harry that had suffered and hardened? Or the one who had been spared, yet still haunted by things he didn't understand?
He thought of Ron. Hermione. Ginny.
And—just like that—they were there.
Their faces swam into view beyond the misted veil. Desperate. Pale.
"Harry, please listen to us before you make any decisions!" Hermione cried, her voice raw and trembling, tears streaking down her face. "Don't do this!"
It stopped him. Really stopped him.
Hermione never begged. She reasoned. She knew. But here she was—bare, terrified, cracking beneath the weight of this moment.
Ron stood beside her, wide-eyed and pale. He didn't even try to joke it off.
"We're not lying, Harry!" he called. "You've got to believe us!"
And Ginny—
Harry's breath hitched as he looked at her.
She gripped the bars like they might disappear if she let go, her knuckles white, her voice breaking.
"Just give us a chance to prove it to you," she said. "Please."
Harry took a step back.
Everything swirled inside him—pain, confusion, wonder, grief. These weren't the friends he remembered. They were deeper, more real, and more afraid. And their fear wasn't of what he would do—it was of losing him.
He looked from one face to the next.
They weren't pleading because they needed him to believe them.
They were pleading because they loved him.
And somehow, in this fractured world, that truth hit harder than all the others.
Harry took the basilisk fang.
Its weight wasn't physical—it was something else. Something older, heavier. A symbol of finality. His fingers curled around it, knuckles straining white as he listened to their voices, every word a thread trying to stitch him back into a life he no longer knew how to inhabit.
Hermione's words echoed, fragile and full of longing.
"There are so many more good memories than bad ones."
But were there? Or had he just been too blind to see the cracks beneath the comfort?
You have friends who support you like family…
He had. But what if that had changed the moment he'd seen the truth? The moment this version of himself had peeled open the illusion and offered him a different reality—raw, brutal, unfiltered.
He stared at the fang, its tip gleaming like a drop of liquid moonlight. The silence between them vibrated with unspoken possibilities. One thrust, and the illusion would collapse—or he would. One choice, and the path would close behind him forever.
Then Ginny spoke.
Soft. Trembling. True.
"Don't let it win."
It wasn't the darkness she meant—it was the temptation. The desire to abandon the pain of his real life for something safer. Simpler. Fake.
Harry felt his own voice break inside him before he even spoke.
"How can I make a decision?" he whispered, as if asking the shadows themselves. "What should I do?"
The figure—his mirror—lifted its hand.
"You have the power to erase me… Or pierce yourself and live the life you saw instead. The choice is yours."
The finality of it struck him like ice water down his spine.
It was real.
No prophecy. No prophecy-chosen moment of destiny. Just a decision. And no one could make it for him.
For a moment—one quiet, terrible heartbeat—he was tempted. Truly tempted. A world without trauma. Without war. With parents alive and days filled with simple joys. He could still see flashes of it—warm light through windows, laughter echoing down a hallway. A life uninterrupted.
But then he looked up.
And saw them.
Hermione, pale and shaking but still fighting. Ron, jaw clenched, daring him to throw everything away. And Ginny—silent, eyes glistening with tears she wouldn't let fall, because she knew he was listening.
Because she believed in him, even now.
The words slipped from his lips before he could stop them.
"My time is too precious to be wasted on illusions," he said coldly, that dark grin curling like smoke. The fang glinted in the dim light as he raised it.
Their reactions were instant.
"Harry, please!" Hermione cried, her voice shattering under the weight of her sorrow. "Consider more than just yourself!"
Ron stepped forward, eyes blazing. "Is that all there is to it? You'll let selfishness dictate your actions without regard for the bigger picture?"
"Enough, Ron," Hermione whispered, her voice fraying. "This isn't helping…"
But Harry—this version of him—shook his head. "I've heard all I need to, Weasley. Don't underestimate me."
The words were poison. Detached. Dismissive. Not him—and yet, some deep part of him had felt them like a pulse.
Ron didn't flinch.
"Oh yeah?" he shot back. "We've stood by your side through everything. We fought for what was right. Your parents—your real parents—died to give you a future. I swore to cherish those moments and stand with you to the end."
His voice cracked, but he didn't stop.
"You might choose the easy way," Ron said, "but happiness doesn't come from comfort, mate. It comes from knowing you've earned the life you're living."
And that—
That landed.
Harry's heart stuttered.
It would be easy, wouldn't it? To choose peace. To walk into warmth and never look back. But he remembered what that other Harry had endured. Remembered the scars, the pain, the growth. And how that Harry had still stood. Still fought.
He turned to Ginny. Her expression held none of the fire he was used to—just quiet, unwavering sorrow.
"Even I would take that comfort," she said softly. "But you've seen what the other world made of you. It wasn't safety that gave you strength—it was struggle."
Her voice trembled.
"If you stay here, you'll be protected. But you'll never know what it means to protect others. Not really. You'll never understand what's worth losing… or what's worth saving."
Harry's mouth was dry. His frustration boiled inside him, aimless and desperate.
Because she was right.
So was Ron. So was Hermione.
And that was the problem.
He looked down at the fang again. Its choice was still his. Still waiting.
The silence around them crackled with potential.
He had to choose.
"Ask yourself, Harry," Hermione said gently, her voice trembling as she looked down at the stone floor. "Have you ever had someone you'd risk your life for?"
The question hit Harry like a jolt. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. For all the times he'd faced danger—dark wizards, cursed creatures, death itself—it had always been about survival. About doing what had to be done. But this was different. This was about choosing someone, not just reacting to the chaos around him. It forced him to think about something he had never let himself fully face: the aching emptiness beneath the victories, the loneliness even in safety.
He swallowed hard, his fingers twitching around the basilisk fang still gripped tightly in his hand. He thought of his parents—warm, alive, loving—but even in this world, they didn't fill the void completely. Something was still missing. Something he couldn't name.
Hermione lifted her head, and when she met his eyes, her voice steadied.
"For us, that person is you," she said with quiet force, as though saying it aloud gave the truth more power. "We'd risk everything for you. We already have."
Harry flinched. He hadn't expected that kind of answer. Not so plainly. Not with that kind of certainty. He blinked, trying to shake the weight of her words, but they clung to him.
"Why?" he whispered, his voice raw. "Why would you choose me?"
Ron stepped forward. "Because you're our friend," he said firmly. "Because we trust you. Always have."
"You don't even know me," Harry muttered, bitterness creeping into his tone.
"We do," Ginny said softly, stepping beside Hermione. "You may not remember, but we've seen the real you—every brave, stupid, stubborn part of you. You've saved us all, more than once."
"And now," Hermione added, "it's our turn to save you."
Harry shook his head, torn between anger and disbelief. "Why would you put yourselves in danger for me? I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask for any of it."
"Because you're more than just a friend to us," Ginny replied, her voice firm but filled with warmth. "You're family. That's what family does. We fight for each other. We hold on even when the other person tries to push us away."
Her eyes found his, and Harry felt a strange tug in his chest—something fragile and fierce all at once.
But he couldn't accept it. Not yet. The walls he'd built were too thick, the doubt too loud.
He backed away slightly, gripping the fang tighter. His expression hardened.
"I'm tired of people telling me who I am," he snapped. "Tired of being expected to save everyone, to be something I never asked to be. Maybe I don't want to be your hero. Maybe I never was."
Ron's face twisted with a mix of hurt and frustration. "This isn't about being a hero, Harry. It's about choosing not to give up. On yourself. On us. On everything that matters."
Harry's grip on the fang trembled. He was torn in two—between the comfort of giving in and the unbearable weight of living up to their belief in him.
"I don't want this responsibility," he said, voice cracking. "Not again."
"You're not alone anymore," Hermione said quietly. "You don't have to carry everything by yourself."
He looked at her and then at Ron and Ginny. Their eyes were full of fear, yes—but also love. Not the kind that demanded something from him. The kind that waited, that hoped.
His heart ached. Their words felt like both a gift and a curse. He wanted to believe them—but doubt still clawed at the edges of his mind.
"No," he said suddenly, the word ripping out of him. "No!" His voice rose, raw and full of pain.
He raised the fang, the tip gleaming in the dim light.
Ginny gasped. Hermione cried out.
"Harry, please!" Hermione begged, her voice cracking as tears spilt down her cheeks. "Don't do this!"
Ron's fists clenched, his voice breaking. "You're better than this, mate. You know you are!"
But Harry didn't hear them anymore. Not fully. He was drowning in a storm of his own making—pain, anger, confusion, and love—all colliding in a chaos he didn't know how to escape.
Ginny lunged forward, gripping the bars between them.
"DON'T!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the chamber, trembling with desperation. "We love you, Harry! I love you! Don't throw that away!"
Harry stood frozen, the fang still raised, the room spinning around him. His vision blurred—not from magic, but from tears.
He didn't want to be alone.
He didn't want to be broken.
But he didn't know how to be whole.