Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ A Horcrux’s Fate ❯ Chapter 11 ( Chapter 11 )

[ A - All Readers ]

Arthur anxiously shifted in his seat at the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, stealing glances at the clock on the wall. Each tick echoed in his mind like a countdown of his own frayed nerves. The urgency of his request to Kingsley weighed heavily on him, evident in the furrowed brow and restlessness that danced across his features as he diligently scribbled notes and checked documents. He eagerly awaited Kingsley’s response, grappling with impatience, every minute feeling like an eternity. The visit promised to him seemed perpetually delayed—a torturous limbo he wished to escape.

The minutes dragged on, and Arthur’s restlessness multiplied into an unbearable tension. Unable to sit idly for another moment, he rose from his desk and began pacing the small office, his fingers absently stroking his chin in contemplation. A flood of thoughts swirled relentlessly in his mind—who could Kingsley be interrogating that was causing such a significant delay? And most importantly, what news could he bring regarding Harry’s deteriorating health? Arthur’s heart ached at the thought, fuelling his need for immediate action.

He made his way out of the office, his strides deliberate and hurried, urgency propelling him forward. The bustling corridors of the Ministry of Magic felt disjointed against his focused mind. A crowd gathered at the entrance to Kingsley’s office caught Arthur’s attention, but the commotion barely registered in his anxious state. Instead, he altered his course towards the courtrooms.

The atmosphere in the underground passages was eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the usual hustle of ministry life. Arthur’s steps quickened, the distant murmurs and shuffling barely breaking the tense silence. As he spotted the Auror guards stationed ahead, he steeled himself, confidently heading towards the door where Kingsley was likely stationed.

After a moment of hesitation, raising a hand intent on knocking, the door swung open to reveal a fatigued and visibly irritated Kingsley. Arthur caught a brief glimpse of Lucius Malfoy’s distinctive silver hair with his family, and felt an involuntary thrill of revulsion.

“Kingsley,” Arthur said, weary but determined, their eyes locking in a shared understanding of the weight of their responsibilities.

Kingsley nodded. “I apologise for the delay in getting back to you, Arthur. I was just wrapping up my conversation with Lucius Malfoy.”

“Did you manage to gather any useful information from him?” Arthur asked, the scepticism palpable in his voice.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, his instincts flaring. “He might just be playing games. Lucius has a history of deceit. We shouldn’t trust him until he proves himself to be genuinely committed.”

“I share your reservations. But there was something in his demeanor that made me believe he was being sincere. We will need to monitor him and his family closely,” Kingsley replied, his tone serious.

“Even if he does genuinely want to switch sides, there’s no guarantee that he’ll remain loyal. We must tread carefully,” Arthur insisted.

Kingsley’s brow furrowed. “All he wants is to escape. Deception is his strategy. But having influential purebloods like Malfoy on our side would greatly benefit our cause.”

“It seems unlikely that Malfoy would join us. Is he truly willing to switch allegiance, as he claimed?” Arthur asked, scepticism still heavy in his voice.

“He’s proposed to share the identities of all Death Eaters and aid in their capture, in return for clearing his name and his family’s reputation from any wrongdoing.”

Arthur scoffed, letting out a loud snort of frustration. “That excuse sounds like it has been used too many times. While some have provided significant help, the majority did not. Why should we expect anything different this time? Allowing him to go free would be a grave mistake.”

Kingsley, however, seemed pleased with his strategy. “I gave him a little scare,” he said with a smirk. “I made it clear that if he didn’t tell the truth, I would tarnish his family’s reputation in the Daily Prophet and hand over all his wealth to the Ministry. The thought of losing his money and facing his fans with empty pockets made him turn pale. He wouldn’t want that.”

Arthur couldn’t help but laugh at the idea of Lucius Malfoy being so concerned about his reputation; it was a welcome change to see the proud aristocrat humbled.

“Right now, we will keep Lucius and Narcissa in custody while our investigation continues. And as for Draco, he will be closely monitored and may face disciplinary action as needed. It won’t be long before all the Death Eaters end up in Azkaban,” Kingsley exclaimed, a glimmer of hope lighting his eyes.

“Don’t celebrate yet,” Arthur cautioned. “Lucius will drag this out, but that hardly matters. We have more pressing issues to address.”

The door to one of the courtrooms swung open, and as Arthur caught sight of the Malfoy family—Lucius with his icy composure, Narcissa whispering urgently to her husband, and Draco lingering behind, a cloud of uncertainty surrounding him.

Arthur turned his attention away from the family’s retreat. Kingsley Shacklebolt’s serious demeanour called him back to the present; there was little time for distractions when Harry’s life hung in the balance.

“Harry,” Kingsley whispered urgently, the worry genuine in his voice. “How is he doing?”

With a sigh evoked by the weight of his words, Arthur shuffled his feet. “He’s putting up a brave front, but his condition is still very critical.” The admission felt like a stone dropped into a silent pond, sending ripples of tension through the air.

Kingsley’s acknowledgement was a mere nod, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. They both understood the gravity of the situation all too well. Just then, Draco’s gaze swept over them, a flicker of curiosity breaking through his usually sullen demeanour.

Kingsley seemed to notice Draco’s expression, and it prompted a conversation that shifted the mood ever so slightly. “Your request for a fragment of the Veil stone seemed unusual to me,” he mused, his brows furrowing in thought.

“I hope it won’t be too difficult to obtain this substance,” Arthur replied, allowing a glimmer of hope to pierce his earlier despair. “We need something—anything—that could help him.”

“The Unspeakables will obtain it promptly. However, I’m struggling to understand how the stone will aid Harry. It’s quite perplexing.” Kingsley’s voice dripped with scepticism.

“His friends intend to use the stone in a potion. I’m uncertain about its efficacy. It doesn’t seem promising to me,” Arthur added, his tone sombre as he mulled over the mysterious nature of the plan at hand.

Kingsley grimaced but maintained his focus. “And Harry needs to drink that? I just can’t see how it will benefit him in any way.”

“That seems to be the case,” Arthur confirmed, feeling the weight of their shared concerns pressing down harder on his chest.

They continued watching as the Malfoys vanished from view, but Draco lingered a moment longer, stealing glances back at them. Arthur arched an eyebrow, intrigue piquing his thoughts. What was going on in the young man’s mind, he wondered.

Once the Malfoys disappeared from sight, Kingsley leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hush. “I plan on personally delivering the stone to Harry to protect his privacy. Do you think he is well enough to receive it?”

“I certainly hope so. He trusts you,” Arthur said, genuinely believing in the bond they had cultivated through shared struggles. “He admires you as a former auror. You’re a beacon of hope for him.”

Kingsley’s smile grew, filled with the promise of what lay ahead. “I look forward to seeing him at Auror Headquarters soon. At only seventeen, Harry shows remarkable potential to become the next head auror. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Arthur’s chuckle broke through the tension. “He would no doubt be honoured by your words. Like many of us, I am eager to witness the impact he will have on the wizarding world. I am certain he will make a significant difference.”

Kingsley’s eyes sparkled with excitement as a thought struck him. “I have a feeling that Harry could excel as a minister in the future,” he declared, conviction lacing each word. “He possesses all the necessary traits and skills required for such a prestigious position.”

The idea hung in the air—a tantalising possibility. Arthur considered it, but shook his head with a soft smile. “I’m not so sure that Harry would aspire to that. He has always shied away from the limelight and does not seek fame. But I suppose it’s not entirely impossible.”

“Let’s not get carried away with our speculations,” Kingsley replied, amusement creeping into his voice. “We still have a long journey ahead of us before we can even begin to entertain such thoughts.”

Arthur nodded in agreement, a renewed sense of determination creeping back into his bones. “Yes, you are right. We must focus on the present and tackle each challenge as it comes,” he affirmed.

Arthur Weasley rubbed the bridge of his nose as he leaned back in his creaking office chair, the dim light casting shadows on the cluttered desk filled with Muggle artefacts. It had been a long day at the ministry, but just as he was about to close up his paperwork, he caught sight of a familiar figure loitering outside.

Draco Malfoy stood there, looking particularly haggard. His usually pristine blond hair was unkempt, and his skin bore a sickly pallor that made him look years younger than his age. Arthur hesitated; the enmity that had characterised their past interactions hung between them like a thick fog, but something in Draco’s stance suggested a different purpose today.

“Do you require assistance finding your way out of the ministry?” Arthur called out cautiously.

“No,” Draco muttered, though his gaze strayed across the myriad of odd Muggle items cluttering the office, settling on a particularly garish rubber duck. The stark contrast between the trinkets and the boy’s sombre demeanour made Arthur’s heart ache a little.

Draco’s disgust was tangible. “I can navigate my own way.”

Arthur sighed heavily; he wasn’t in the mood for games. “If you have something to say, speak up. My work is done, and I am eager to head home.”

“Is Potter truly sick?” The question came like a sudden gust of wind, laden with urgency.

Mr. Weasley froze, his heart skipping a beat. “Were you eavesdropping outside the courtrooms earlier?”

“I wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t mentioned his name so loudly,” Draco replied coldly, crossing his arms as if trying to steel himself against the conversation.

“Listening in on conversations must be quite entertaining,” Arthur retorted, annoyance creeping into his voice. “I must say, I am not surprised.”

For a moment, the tension thickened like fog in the air. The boy standing before him, filled with so much unresolved conflict, merely murmured, “I only wish to know if he’s unwell. It seems improbable for Potter to fall ill when he’s always stirring up trouble.”

“This doesn’t concern you,” Arthur snapped, the protective instinct for Harry rising within him. “Therefore, I suggest you depart.”

“Don’t you understand? It concerns me now.” Draco’s cold tone was unwavering. “I insist on seeing him in person, whether you approve or not.”

Arthur’s irritation flared. “Did you not hear what I just said?”

But Draco stood firm, a gaunt figure silhouetted in the doorway, blocking his exit. “I owe him.” A flicker of emotion crossed Draco’s face, startlingly genuine for once, and Arthur couldn’t help but see the echoes of a boy who had once been lost in darker predicaments.

Still, doubt gnawed at him. “Why should I believe you?” Arthur challenged, scrutinising Draco’s expression for any hint of insincerity.

Unfazed by Arthur’s suspicion, Draco squared his shoulders, earnestness burning in his narrowed gaze. “He saved my life,” he stated flatly. “And I am merely asking for that favour to be repaid—nothing more.”

The room fell silent, the clock ticking almost audibly as Arthur weighed his options. He knew that allowing Draco to be near Harry could pose risks that rippled far beyond their current troubles—his family had already endured so much. But at that moment, the notion of a life debt loomed larger than his reservations.

“I will let you see Harry,” he finally said, his voice resolute, “but with one condition. You must not breathe a word of what you see or hear to anyone. I’ll know if you do—do you understand?”

Draco’s response was immediate, insouciance veiling the worry beneath. “And what will happen if I do tell?”

Arthur allowed a smirk, though it didn’t quite touch his eyes. “Let’s just say your family would face increased scrutiny and possibly lose certain privileges.”

With a nonchalant shrug, Draco shifted aside, wordlessly signalling for him to proceed.

As they stepped into the bustling Atrium, Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling that they were striding toward a storm, one that could either lay bare hidden truths or envelop them in the shadows of their tangled pasts. And for Draco, perhaps, this visit would mark the first step in mending the rift that had once seemed insurmountable.

As Mr. Weasley stepped out of the warmth of the fireplace, the chill in the air punctured the thick layer of unease already layered within the Burrow’s kitchen. The walls, usually alive with the aroma of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking, now bore witness to a silence that settled heavily upon the three young faces staring at a spot on the floor. The air was thick with tension, and Mr. Weasley sensed an invisible wall of worry barricading their hearts.

Ron, Ginny, and Hermione remained seated at the wooden table, their expressions gravely serious as though they were attending a funeral rather than simply gathering for a family meal. Arthur Weasley’s paternal instincts kicked in; he immediately grasped that something serious, likely involving their friend Harry, had marred the otherwise cosy atmosphere.

Just as Mr. Weasley opened his mouth to address his children, the fireplace flared once more. The energy shifted drastically as Draco Malfoy stepped through the flames, a smug grin plastered across his face, momentarily breaking the despair that hung in the air. His blonde hair caught the light like a halo of arrogance.

In an instant, Ron was on his feet, fists clenched, his blue eyes blazing with fury. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, his voice trembling with barely restrained rage.

Hermione and Ginny exchanged glances, each trying to gauge the implications of Malfoy’s presence. They both knew well enough that this wasn’t just a visit; the tension screamed with a greater significance than simple rivalry. The air crackled between them.

A scream suddenly sliced through the quiet, sharp, and chilling. It echoed off the walls, and for a moment, all thoughts of Ron’s confrontation with Malfoy dissolved into panic. The scream intensified, a raw and pained sound that gripped everyone’s hearts.

“What’s with the hostility?” Malfoy feigned innocence, raising an eyebrow. “Is someone being tortured up there?” His arrogance was met with silence.

Ron’s face hardened, resolve pulling his features taut. “What are you doing here, Malfoy? Harry doesn’t want to talk to you.” He jabbed a finger toward Malfoy, a barrier drawn between them.

Mr. Weasley’s hand landed gently on Ron’s shoulder, a grounding presence as he urged his son to sit down. “Now, son, let’s not escalate this. Draco’s here for a reason,” he said quietly.

“But he’s not welcome here, Dad!” Ron blurted, his voice a low growl. “And besides, Harry’s in no condition to talk to anyone at the moment.” His fists remained clenched, the tension coiling within him.

“Is Harry in his room?” Mr. Weasley asked, his brow furrowing with concern. When Ginny nodded, her face a mask of worry, he turned to Malfoy, a firm but cautious expression on his face. “You’ll behave, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Malfoy replied with mock sincerity, though the contempt was evident in his tone.

“Then let’s all keep it civil,” Mr. Weasley said, nodding once more. “I’ll go check on Harry.” Without waiting for a reply, he swiftly exited the kitchen, leaving the five of them to grapple with the uncertainty that awaited.

Ron found himself caught in a storm of emotions. The echoes of Harry’s muffled screams reverberated through the walls, laced with agony and despair. Ron’s heart was heavy, and the furious glances he exchanged with Hermione and Ginny carried the weight of unspoken thoughts. The three friends had always been united against threats, and in that moment, Malfoy’s indifference sparked a firestorm of resentment within Ron.

Malfoy lounged against the sink, arms crossed and expression dismissive. His pale eyes scanned the room, catching Ron’s glare with a look of bemused curiosity. “They really should ease up on whoever they’re torturing,” he remarked, his voice oozing callousness. Ron’s face darkened, his eyes flashing with anger.

“That’s Harry, you ignorant fool!” Ron shot back, the words coming out harsher than he intended. “And he’s not being tortured; he’s—”

“Sick, I know,” Malfoy interrupted, unfazed. “So why aren’t you by Potter’s side if you claim to be such good friends?” His tone was mocking; he aimed to dig the knife deeper.

How dare he? Ron bristled at the insinuation. “Don’t you dare question the depth of our friendship!” he hissed, his fists clenching. “You know nothing about it!”

Malfoy’s sneer only widened, his condescension palpable. “If I were ill and my friends deserted me, I would be seething with anger.”

“Yeah? Well, we’re not you, Malfoy! We actually care!” Hermione’s voice rose above the simmering tension. “You have no authority to pass judgement on us; it’s clear you’re unaware of the gravity of Harry’s situation.”

Ginny joined in, her tone sharp and unwavering. “You waltz in here without a care for those who live here. Just leave.” Her eyes narrowed on Malfoy, filled with disdain.

Malfoy feigned disbelief, a smirk playing on his lips. “How can I be expected to show respect when I wasn’t even offered a place to sit?” His arrogance hung in the air, heavy and acrid.

Ron could hardly contain his irritation. “You’re well aware that your presence is not wanted in our house,” he declared, his voice firm.

Malfoy’s response was coated with arrogance as he glanced around the room with a look of disdain. “This place hardly qualifies as a residence,” he remarked, his tone dripping with contempt. “I’ve seen more elegant surroundings in a decrepit shack.”

Ron shot Malfoy a fierce look, his eyes filled with anger and contempt. “You have no place here,” he stated firmly, his voice filled with resentment. “If you want a seat, go find one elsewhere.”

“Oh, aren’t we feeling bold today?” Malfoy mocked, leaning closer with a cattish grin. “But of course, that’s to be expected from a Weasley.”

Ginny, her eyes narrowed in disgust, spoke up next, her tone sharp and cutting. “Malfoy, you’re not wanted here. Leave now,” she demanded.

Malfoy observed Ginny with a condescending smirk, his amusement evident in his eyes. “Did your father not tell you, Weaselette? I’m more than welcome here,” he stated nonchalantly, his arrogance palpable.

“Didn’t you hear Harry screaming?” Ron retorted, his words laced with defiance. “Harry’s ill and wouldn’t want to speak with you even if he weren’t,” Ron retorted, his words laced with defiance.

But Malfoy’s calm demeanour only fuelled Ron’s rage. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he retorted, completely at ease under their scrutiny.

Then came the sound—the unmistakable cries of Harry resounding through the kitchen, sharper now, filled with desperation. It sent a chill down Ron’s spine, the realisation hitting him like a slap.

Just then, Arthur descended from the stairs, his expression a mixture of worry and relief. “Harry’s condition is stable for the time being,” he explained, bringing a semblance of calm.

“Is he sleeping?” Ginny asked, her voice laced with hope.

“No, he’s merely resting,” Arthur clarified. “And he’s agreed to see Draco.”

At that, Ron’s eyebrows shot up in shock. “Is Harry really okay with this? He’s been through a harrowing experience! Couldn’t Malfoy come back later?” He shot Malfoy an angry glance. “Harry would be sleeping now and regaining his strength if you hadn’t come to bother him.”

“It seems that he’s fine with it,” Arthur replied. “He didn’t voice any objections; he simply gave me a quick nod.”

“I’ll go ask him myself then,” Ron proclaimed, preparing to head upstairs, but Arthur’s firm voice stopped him.

“There’s no need, son. Only Draco should proceed to his room, and you should remain downstairs.”

Ron’s mouth fell open in disbelief, while Hermione and Ginny exchanged looks of outrage. “But, Dad—” Ron tried to protest.

“It’s not our place to speculate about Draco and Harry’s private conversation,” Arthur interjected firmly. “And it’s definitely not our place to meddle.”

Draco stood there, arrogance radiating off of him like some kind of toxic haze. Ron’s stomach churned, a wave of anger washing over him as he caught Malfoy’s taunting smirk.

“I warn you,” Ron threatened, voice low and measured, “if you try anything against Harry, you will face the consequences.”

“Malfoy chuckled, leaning into the conversation. “You must take me for a fool to think I would engage in a fight with an unarmed opponent. He’s far too weak to be a threat, even with a wand.”

The room went still. Ron lunged at Malfoy, intent on delivering a deserved punch, but Arthur’s firm grip on his arm halted him, holding him back like an anchor against the rise of the storm.

“Let it go, Ron,” Mr. Weasley said quietly, but the words fell on deaf ears as the tension forged an unbreakable bond of anger.

Mr. Weasley fixed Draco with a stern look of disapproval, expressing his anger by stating, “I have granted you the chance to speak with Harry in a civil and respectful manner, especially considering his current condition of being unwell. If you fail to comply, I’ll end our agreement, and you will be escorted back to the ministry. Is that clear?”

Draco looked away, avoiding his gaze.

“Do I make myself absolutely clear?” Mr. Weasley asked more firmly.

“Yes,” Draco answered blandly.

“Good. Now, proceed upstairs,” Mr. Weasley instructed, gesturing towards the staircase, signifying the end of the exchange.

As he made his way up the stairs, Malfoy cast a malevolent gaze towards the four teenagers, particularly aiming his glare at them with ill-intentions.

Ron noticed a glint of enmity in Malfoy’s eyes right before he disappeared from their sight.

Ron felt a sudden urge to eavesdrop on their conversation, maybe using an Extendable Ear, but he knew that his father would definitely catch him in the act. This internal conflict made him mutter curses under his breath and let out a frustrated sigh.

Draco crept upstairs, lured by an unwelcome curiosity, sharp-edged like the legacy of his last name. The vibrant hues of the sunset spilt through the open windows, an ironic contrast to the oppressive atmosphere inside as he moved silently toward what he assumed was Harry Potter’s room.

As he entered the dimly lit space, the sight was unexpected. Molly Weasley sat by the bed, her maternal instincts screaming in disapproval. Without uttering a word, she stood and briskly left the room, leaving an emptiness that felt heavier than the air itself.

Potter lay on the bed, his usual spark dimmed. The fever had sapped his energy, leaving him pale and gaunt, eyes closed, and breaths laboured like someone wrestling against murky waters, fighting for air. Draco’s presence seemed to cut through the haze, and he cleared his throat, the sound dissonant in the stillness of the room. “Potter.”

Harry blinked slowly, the recognition dawning behind his glasses, enhanced by the warm light spilling into the room. Almost instinctively, the corners of Draco’s mouth twisted into a sneer—old habits die hard. “What happened to you?” he asked, his voice cold and indifferent, as if feigning disinterest in Potter’s declining state was a way to shield himself from the reality that lay before him.

Potter’s voice was barely a whisper. “I’m sorry for not living up to your expectations. Frankly, you don’t appear to be in top form either. Are you missing him that much?”

That struck a nerve, and Draco felt a flush of anger wash over him like a wave. “Are you really going to spout such nonsense in front of your superior?” Each word dripped with disdain, but part of him felt the absurdity in using the term.

“A superior?” Potter echoed with a derisive laugh, the effort costing him dearly. “All I see is a coward.

Draco clenched his fists, his eyes narrowing. “I am not someone you know well, Potter. I’ve accomplished remarkable feats—feats that you could only dream of.”

“Remarkable feats, as defined by Crabbe and Goyle?” Potter shot back, his tone a mix of sarcasm and fatigue. “I believe you’ve let all that praise go to your head.”

Malfoy’s expression hardened, but he took a step forward, determined to press on. “Even without them, I’ve managed on my own. I don’t need them to prove—”

“Has the great Malfoy lost his way without his goons to guide him? Is this why you’ve come here?”

Draco’s laughter was sharp, cutting through the tension. But beneath the bravado, a flicker of doubt stirred. “Don’t think too highly of yourself, Potter,” he retorted.

Potter’s annoyance boiled over. “Say what you will, Malfoy. In addition to ridiculing me, can you explain why you’re here? I’m tired of your disrespectful words, and I don’t wish to hear any more. I’ve reached my limit.”

But Draco, stubborn as always, pressed forward. “Let me make one thing clear. You saved me, and I’m indebted to you. I have come here only to repay the debt I owe.”

A smirk bloomed on Potter’s lips. “So you have the audacity to show disrespect to the person who saved your life, even though you’re in their debt?”

“Shut up, Potter,” Draco snapped, a hint of bitterness colouring his tone. “Just let me know how I can repay you, and then I’ll be on my way.”

Potter regarded him warily. “It seems like repaying me feels like a punishment to you. It’s almost as if you’d prefer being indebted to someone else.”

“Absolutely right,” Draco replied, his gaze hardening. “I have a feeling you’ll come up with an impossible task just to make my life difficult.”

“Simply staying away from me is enough repayment,” Potter insisted, his voice growing weaker. “It honestly is the easiest favour I can think of. Besides, I have doubts about you actually completing any task that I assign to you. Trust me, it’s a relief to not have to deal with your arrogance and attitude. Consider our debt settled with this arrangement.”

“No,” Draco said with finality, and Potter’s brow furrowed with confusion.

“No, what exactly?”

“I refuse to leave simply because you find my presence displeasing,” Draco stated, emphasising his stance. “You must learn to tolerate my existence. There’s nothing you can do to change that.”

Exasperated, Potter let out a weary sigh. “I cannot endure your company any longer. As you can clearly see, I’m drained and sick,” he stated, closing his eyes briefly as if to signal Malfoy to leave. But the Slytherin’s defiance held.

“Why are you sick?” he enquired, his tone shifting toward genuine curiosity. “There are rumours circulating that you’re on the brink of death.”

Potter’s tension increased at the remark, but he forced himself to respond curtly. “That’s none of your business.”

“Based on your screams, it must be extremely painful,” Draco remarked, a smirk hinting at the corners of his lips.

“Seriously, Malfoy?” Potter replied sarcastically, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

“So, what is it then?” Malfoy pressed.

“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about. Can’t you just let it go and leave me be?” His voice was heavy with fatigue. “I’ve had a long day, and I don’t need this.”

But Malfoy was unmoved, crossing his arms in a defiant stance. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you’re sick. You know I won’t rest until I get to the bottom of this.”

Potter let out a deep sigh once more. “I don’t feel obligated to explain myself to you,” he replied, his eyes flicking away from Malfoy’s piercing gaze. There was a flicker of vulnerability behind them that he’d never dare show. “And besides, there’s already a solution to the issue, so perhaps it’s best to just move on.”

“Is it that stone from... the Veil?” Malfoy’s brow furrowed, a faint glimmer of consideration overshadowing the usual disdain as he attempted to recall the snippet of conversation he had overheard between Arthur and Kingsley.

Potter’s eyes widened in surprise. “How did you find out about that?” he asked, disbelief lacing his tone. Suspicion coloured his perception of Malfoy’s motives, like a shadow that wouldn’t let go.

The nonchalant cast of Malfoy’s shoulders barely concealed the unease that lurked beneath. “I have my sources, Potter,” he retorted, but his voice held a tinge of boredom, almost as if he were attempting to dismiss the severity of the situation.

“Are you going to enlighten me now?” Malfoy pressed, stripping the air of any levity.

“No,” Potter stated firmly, a prick of irritation flaring at Malfoy’s relentless questioning. Malfoy owed him answers, but Harry was not about to share his burden lightly.

“Fine,” Malfoy quipped, that infuriating sarcasm creeping back into his voice. “I could always ask the Weasley’s father for information. I’m sure he would spill everything if I mentioned the cure and the stone.”

Frustration bubbled up within Potter like caustic bile. “Just drop it, can’t you?” he exclaimed, his patience wearing thin.

“Why is it so difficult for you to grasp the concept of ‘no,’ Potter? I know you’re unwell, but it seems like you’ve suffered a head injury affecting your understanding,” Malfoy retorted, crossing his arms defiantly.

Potter clenched his fists, convinced Malfoy revelled in this twisted game of endurance. But even amidst the anger pulsing through him, he couldn’t escape the reality of his own fatigue. “Please...” he croaked, his voice barely a whisper now, the pain in his throat clawing at him like a vicious beast. “Let it go, Malfoy. I’m exhausted.”

Malfoy’s façade cracked slightly, revealing a flicker of compassion. “I’m exhausted too,” he admitted, his sharp features softening for the briefest moment. “Do us both a favour and tell me about this cure. Do you have it now?”

“No, we don’t have it yet,” Potter snapped, the frustration in his voice creating a palpable tension between them. “We’re still missing a crucial component.”

“What other piece are you referring to?” Malfoy pressed, curiosity igniting in his cold grey eyes.

Potter hesitated, wrestling with the idea of sharing yet another piece of his tortured soul. But Malfoy’s relentless questioning forced him to reevaluate. “We need more than just the stone,” he admitted reluctantly, feeling a flicker of trust toward the boy who had once been his greatest adversary. “Do you happen to know where I can find a wild Thestral?”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow; his interest visibly piqued. “Why are you looking for a wild Thestral?”

“Please answer the question,” Potter insisted, desperation creeping into his tone. “Do you know where I can find one or not?”

“Curious that you would ask,” Malfoy replied, a chill penetrating his tone. “The Dark Lord specifically desired a wild Thestral. It just so happened that he disclosed to me the exact location where they could be found.”

Potter’s heart raced at the mention of Voldemort. “Why did he need it?” he asked, pondering the depths of dark magic that could possibly intertwine with the creature’s ethereal essence.

Malfoy shrugged, a practiced indifference masking the complexities of his past. “The Dark Lord doesn’t share his plans openly. That particular quest was classified as ‘need to know’ information, only accessible to a chosen few.”

Desperation clawed at Potter’s chest again. “Where can I find it, then?”

“If I reveal its whereabouts, are we even?” Malfoy grinned, mischief glinting in his eyes.

Potter sighed, placing the fate of his own struggle in Malfoy’s hands as he nodded. “Fine.”

“In Ireland, there exists a concealed cave inhabited by mystical creatures,” Malfoy revealed grandly, a spark of pride illuminating his expression. “If I were in your position, I would exercise extreme caution or perhaps avoid it altogether.”

“Caution is not a luxury I can afford,” Potter replied, the weight of his mission pressing down on him. He stared into Malfoy’s sharp features, searching for any shred of honesty within the boy who had led him through a thicket of deception for years.

“Be careful, Potter. The answers you seek might come with a price,” Malfoy said, almost as if he were imparting a secret known only to him, yet still holding parts back.