I jolted awake, yanked from a dreamless void into something worse. Pain crashed through my skull, a brutal pounding that made it hard to think, to breathe. My vision swam—nothing but grey walls and flickering shadows, shifting like ghosts. I didn't have my glasses. Everything was twisted, unrecognisable.
I tried to move. My arms felt heavy, wrong, like they didn't belong to me. My body was sluggish and distant, like I was floating inside it. Drugged. My heart began to race.
Cold air scraped against my skin, damp and sharp like winter in the Forbidden Forest. It coiled in my lungs, making me shiver. The room stank of mildew, old parchment, and rot. It reminded me of the graveyard. Cedric lying still. Wormtail's knife flashing. My blood in the cup.
No. Don't think about that.
But the memory clung to me like smoke. Cedric's body falling. The scream I never heard come from my own mouth. The gleam in Voldemort's eyes.
Voices surged around me now—loud, too loud. Their words didn't make sense. Just sounds crashing together. Laughter? Chanting? My ears rang. I wanted to curl up, block it all out. But I couldn't move.
Hands grabbed me—too many, hard and cold, digging into my arms and chest. I froze for a second, then panic exploded inside me. I kicked and twisted, wild with terror, but they held me down like iron. I wasn't in control anymore. My breath came fast and shallow.
Not again. Not like the Ministry. Not like the graveyard. Please. Please.
My mouth opened in a broken cry. The pain in my shoulder was sharp now—someone had twisted it. A flash of white light exploded behind my eyes.
Then came the voice, low and oily:
"Ready… Dark Mark… call him."
Call him?
Who?
My scar flared to life—sharp, splitting, searing through my head like fire. I screamed, my body convulsing, locked in agony. My thoughts fell apart, torn to shreds by pain. The world bent and twisted around me. I couldn't breathe.
"Ready… lord… receive… Mark."
No, no, no—
My brain screamed. What Mark? My skin crawled at the thought of it—of something being burnt into me. Branded. Owned. I tried to speak, to fight, but all I could manage was a hoarse, strangled sound. My arms jerked uselessly against the force holding me down.
Faces flickered in the shadows. One of them was a female—laughing, her teeth bared. Another one looked like Snape. Or was it my father? His face morphed and melted as I blinked, unrecognisable.
You're losing it. Get it together.
A new voice, sharper, barked out: "…potion… witness… not miss…"
Witness what? The fear pressed tighter around my chest. My thoughts kept slipping. Time folded in on itself. I was back in the graveyard. No—I was in the Department of Mysteries. Sirius was falling.
He was dead. I couldn't stop it.
Fingers grabbed my jaw. I jerked my head back instinctively, but they were faster. Thick liquid spilt into my mouth. Sweet and sticky. I choked, gagged, and tried to spit it out, but they clamped my nose shut. I had to swallow or suffocate.
The world shifted again. Hard.
The fog in my head peeled back—and suddenly I could feel everything. Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every scrape of fabric. Every cruel whisper. My skin crawled. I was too aware. Too exposed.
But I still couldn't see clearly. Shapes swam in my vision. The walls bent like melting glass. I blinked furiously, trying to push through it. But the blur wouldn't fade.
I tried to sit up. Nothing moved. Invisible chains held me in place. I could feel them—pressing into my chest, my wrists, and my legs. Like I was already bound to something dark and permanent.
As the dark figure stepped forward, his cloak trailing like smoke, I knew—without a doubt—it was a Death Eater. My chest tightened. My throat locked. Then, without warning, a silencing spell slammed into me like a fist. My lips sealed themselves shut. Panic surged.
I couldn't scream.
I couldn't beg.
I couldn't breathe right.
I was lying flat on the cold stone table in the Slytherin common room, every inch of me bound tight, trembling with fear. The stone dug into my back like ice. The air around me crackled with heat from the fire, but I was freezing. My skin was clammy. My muscles twitched. My heart hammered like it was trying to escape my chest.
This couldn't be happening. Not again. Not like this.
"Welcome back, Harry."
That voice. Smooth. Cold. Familiar. It wrapped around me like a noose. Voldemort.
The name echoed inside me. Every time I heard it, I thought of Cedric's body. Of my parents. Of Sirius falling through the veil. I saw Dumbledore's fingers slipping from the tower edge. I saw blood. Always blood.
His red eyes locked on mine. I couldn't look away. They were glowing, gleaming like fresh wounds in the firelight.
You're not real, I told myself. You're just a dream. Just another nightmare.
But the pain in my limbs said otherwise.
Around me, Slytherin students watched, some grinning, others pale but unable to look away. Malfoy's smirk made my stomach turn. Crabbe's laughter was thick and cruel. I caught Parkinson biting her lip, eyes wide with perverse excitement. They weren't just watching. They were enjoying this.
Am I just a show to them? A game? Is this what they think power looks like?
Voldemort tilted his head at me like a snake studying its prey. "You've had time to rest," he said. "That's good. You'll want to be fully aware of what's coming."
The way he spoke—it made my skin crawl. Every word was a lie. He wanted me afraid. Helpless. He fed on it.
I tried to pull free again, but the invisible bonds only bit deeper into my skin. My wrists screamed. My shoulders ached. The table beneath me felt like a slab in a mortuary.
My thoughts ran wild. I imagined Ron and Hermione bursting in, wands drawn. I pictured Ginny's fire—her temper, her fearlessness. Neville with his quiet strength. Even Luna's calm voice in the middle of madness.
But they weren't here. I was alone.
Voldemort's eyes gleamed. "I've waited for this moment," he said, almost tenderly. "Others have worn this mark, but never has it meant so much."
I knew what he meant.
The Death Eaters around him rolled up their sleeves in unison. Their Dark Marks stood out stark and black against pale skin. They wore them like badges. But I knew better.
I remembered Snape's haunted expression when his sleeve slipped.
I remembered Karkaroff, trembling as he showed his fading mark.
I remembered the pain in Sirius's voice when he said that power didn't make someone strong—that choices did.
Voldemort leaned closer. His breath hit my face—rotting, sour, unbearable. I flinched, but I couldn't move away.
He didn't have to say it. I felt it in my bones. He wanted to brand me. Scar me. Own me.
And somehow, he already thought he did.
"Yes, Harry," he whispered. "You understand."
I thrashed. My body screamed with effort. I jerked and twisted and strained until every muscle burnt. A strangled sound escaped me—a muffled cry. Not from fear alone, but defiance. Rage.
No. I am not yours.
I thought of my mother, standing between me and death with nothing but love.
I thought of Dumbledore's eyes in that last moment—so full of trust.
I thought of the DA, the battle at the Ministry, every time I fought back when I was supposed to fall.
"I know what you're thinking," Voldemort said, voice oily. "You're wondering if you can fight it. If you're strong enough."
He looked around at his audience. "Would you like to know how the Dark Mark feels?" he asked. The Slytherins leaned forward, eager. Their eyes gleamed.
I wanted to vanish. I wanted to scream in their faces. This isn't power. This is cruelty. Cowardice. Madness.
"This is an honour," Voldemort went on. "My most loyal bear it proudly. And now—so will you."
A bitter chill swept over me. My heart dropped into my stomach.
No. Not proudly. Never proudly.
"I gave them power. Strength. Freedom from fear."
Liar. You gave them chains.
"They accepted it. Welcomed it."
Because they were afraid of what would happen if they didn't.
Voldemort's smile darkened. "But you? You'll resist. You always do. That makes it… interesting."
His voice dropped to a hiss. "You may suffer more than they did. It depends on how you feel about me."
His words coiled around me like thorns. My silence burnt. I wanted to shout how much I hated him, how deeply and completely I despised everything he stood for.
"You belong to me now," he said, calm as ice. "Your soul, your thoughts, your pain. I'll be there in every step you take. In every weakness. In every fear. You'll never break free of me."
Voldemort's words slithered through the air, coiling tight around my throat like a living rope. Each syllable felt like a curse, choking the air from my lungs. I couldn't breathe. I was caught in a tug of war—his darkness pulling hard, trying to crush what little strength I had left. But somewhere inside me, something refused to give in. I clung to that, even as everything else slipped away.
I searched the crowd with wild eyes, praying for help, for some sign of hope. But every face I saw was twisted—twisted with hunger, with hate, with blind devotion. They didn't just follow him. They craved his power. They would gladly sell their souls to feel it burn through their veins. And I was completely alone.
Then he was there—sudden, silent, a flash of light, and then him. Inches away.
His hand, cold as death, locked around my arm. The pain was instant, sharp and brutal. I gasped, but no sound came. Something unseen snapped around me, a magical chain, and it dragged the strength right out of me. My legs trembled. My knees buckled. I couldn't fight. I couldn't run. I was nothing against him. Nothing.
Laughter rose up around me, cruel and eager. The Death Eaters were circling like vultures, giddy at the sight of me broken and bound. Their eyes glittered, drinking in my fear like it was a gift.
Voldemort's voice cut through the noise—low and cold and final—as he began the incantation. My stomach dropped. I knew what was coming. I knew. I tried to scream, to shout, to plead—but the magic sealed my mouth shut. Only a pitiful whimper escaped. My body shook with terror. I couldn't stop it.
And then the pain hit.
It wasn't just pain. It was fire, it was blades, it was death. The Dark Mark scorched into my skin like molten metal, branding me from the inside out. I screamed so hard I thought my lungs would tear. The agony was endless—each second stretched like hours, the burning twisting through my bones, ripping me apart.
Tears streamed down my face, but I barely noticed. My world was pain. My body wasn't mine anymore. I couldn't feel anything but the fire. I wanted to fight, to resist, but I couldn't. The darkness was already sinking in, pressing deeper with every beat of my heart. It wasn't just a mark—it was a bond. A curse. A claim.
He was inside me now. A part of me. Just like the scar on my forehead—but worse. Deeper. Permanent.
I wanted it to stop. I wanted to vanish, to fall into the black and never come back. The pain was too much. It was everything. It swallowed my thoughts, my memories, and my name.
And just when I thought I couldn't take one more second of it—darkness, cool and quiet, pulled me under.
A sharp, burning pain in my arm snapped me awake. Dim light crept through the window, casting weak shadows that made it hard to see. My head was pounding, and my thoughts were scattered, like broken pieces I couldn't put together.
Panic rose in my chest as I tried to remember what had happened. The courtyard—there'd been shouting, spells flying, people screaming—and then everything had gone black. My hand scrambled over the bedside table, searching blindly. Nothing. Not even my glasses. My heart thudded faster. I couldn't see or understand where I was or why. Everything felt wrong.
Then, like a punch to the stomach, the memories hit me. Dumbledore lying motionless. Voldemort's voice echoing through the air. Death Eaters storming Hogwarts. My glasses were crushed beneath Voldemort's boot. The cold, locked room in the dungeons. My stomach twisted, and I gasped. This wasn't a nightmare. It was real. The fear in my chest was too sharp, too deep to be anything else.
I looked down at my left arm, lying still on the bed. Something dark curled there, moving. My breath caught. I blinked hard, trying to clear the blur from my eyes. It was real—a skull, with a snake slithering through it. The pain in it pulsed like a second heartbeat, slow and steady, and full of something cold and evil. I'd seen it before. In dreams. On others. But now it was on me.
I couldn't breathe.
It felt like it was taunting me, alive and crawling just beneath my skin. I wanted it gone. I dug my nails into the skin around it, scratching, clawing, anything to tear it away. My fingers slipped over blood and sweat, and the pain only got worse. I cried out, the sound bouncing off the stone walls like it belonged to someone else.
The skin around the mark turned red and raw, the black ink standing out even more. No matter how hard I scratched, it wouldn't go away. My vision swam. My chest felt tight. I tried to hold it in, but the tears came anyway, burning down my face. My breath hitched as blood dripped from my arm, soaking into the sheets, pooling on the floor.
And still, the mark remained.
Voldemort's laughter exploded inside my mind, sharp and cruel. It bounced through my skull like shattered glass, every echo twisting my insides. My stomach clenched, my chest tightened, and heat surged through me like wildfire. I couldn't stop the rage. I didn't want to. His voice wrapped around me like a snake, coiling tighter, feeding off my pain.
He was enjoying this.
I could feel it in every word.
"No matter how hard you try, Harry," he whispered, his voice slithering through the shadows in my mind, "the Dark Mark is seared into your flesh forever."
It didn't even matter that I knew it wasn't the real Dark Mark, not like the one the Death Eaters bore. This one was his own sick invention. A twisted creation meant just for me. Still, the way it burnt, the way it throbbed and pulled at my skin—it might as well have been carved into my soul.
Each word echoed with the same black magic that had branded me. I could feel it inside me, like poison, like rot. I clenched my fist around the pain, trying to shut it out, but it was no use. The mark pulsed with dark energy, and my whole arm trembled.
I wanted to hide it. I wanted to pretend it didn't exist. But there was no pretending. Not anymore. The pain was too real. Too loud.
I was exposed.
Vulnerable.
It felt like someone had ripped away my skin, leaving only raw nerves behind. There was nowhere to hide. No armour. No mask.
Just me. And him.
And then the pain flared again—hotter, sharper. Like fire pressing into flesh. Like someone was branding me again and again and again. My breath caught. I gasped, barely able to speak, and then the scream tore out of me before I could stop it. It echoed off the stone walls, hollow and broken.
I fell.
My legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the cold, unforgiving floor, curling in on myself. I grabbed at my arm like I could somehow smother the pain. But it was too deep, too powerful. It roared through me in waves, each one worse than the last.
It felt like he was inside me. Like his magic had reached past my skin and wrapped itself around my very bones.
Each jolt was personal. Intimate. It wasn't just a curse—it was a violation. A message.
You are mine.
I wanted to call out. For Hermione. For Ron. For Ginny. Anyone. Someone. But the room was silent except for my ragged breaths and the echo of his laughter still dancing in my head.
He didn't need to touch me to hurt me.
He just needed to be.
Darkness crept in from the corners of my vision. It wrapped around the edges like fog. My thoughts blurred. My limbs felt heavy, too heavy to lift. Somewhere in the distance, I heard my own voice—soft, broken—crying out again.
Then everything went black.
When I came to, I was still on the floor. My cheek was pressed against the stone, and my body ached all over. My right arm was wet. I didn't have to look to know it was blood.
The pain hadn't stopped, not really. It had only dulled to a low, rhythmic throb. I blinked slowly, trying to remember where I was. What had happened? But everything was muddled. Time didn't feel real anymore.
I lifted my head, barely able to move. My vision swam. Blood had soaked through my sleeve and dripped onto the floor. I watched it for a moment, as if it belonged to someone else.
Part of me didn't care. Let it bleed. Let it all end here.
It would be a relief.
But then—suddenly—it stopped.
The pain in my arm faded. I blinked. Confused.
I looked down.
The blood was still there, dried and dark, but the wound—it was gone. Completely. The skin was whole again. Smooth. Clean. Not even a scar. Like it had never happened at all.
But it had. I remembered it. I could still feel it.
My heart pounded. My breath caught in my throat.
This wasn't healing. It wasn't help.
It was control.
I pushed myself up slowly, using the wall for support. My limbs shook. My arm felt strangely warm—alive, almost. Like it was humming with something I didn't understand. It pulsed in time with my heartbeat.
Was this part of the torture?
Was this his new game? To rip me apart and put me back together again?
To make me doubt what was real?
The thought made me dizzy.
The pain was gone—but not really. It still lived in my memory, in my bones. The echo of it clung to me like smoke.
Voldemort was playing with me. Testing me. Trying to wear me down bit by bit.
And it was working.
How many more times would he do this? How many times would he break me, only to rebuild me, weaker each time?
I didn't have the answer.
I only had the silence. And the mark on my arm.
"This is just the beginning," he'd said.
I believed him now.
Every part of me ached. Not just from the physical pain—but from everything else. The weight of everything I'd lost. Dumbledore. Sirius. My trust in Snape. My belief that Hogwarts was a safe place.
Gone.
Voldemort's presence here made it clear. Nowhere was safe. Not even my own mind.
I shut my eyes, desperate to escape, even for a second. I reached into myself, into the space where I used to find comfort. I tried to see something—anything—that reminded me of who I was.
Faces flashed before me.
Hermione's determined eyes. Ron's nervous grin. Ginny's fire. Neville, Luna, Fred and George—all of them.
My friends. My family.
Were they still out there?
Were they safe?
Or were they somewhere in this same nightmare, bleeding and screaming and praying for it to end?
I didn't know.
And that not knowing—it was worse than the pain.
Worse than the mark.
Worse than him.
I opened my eyes again.
And I was still alone.
Still bleeding on the inside, even if the wounds had vanished.
Still his.
For now.
The room felt alive with silence. Thick, choking. The walls—deep green, almost black—seemed to pulse around me, closing in. I stared at the massive Slytherin crest across from the bed. That silver serpent curled in green glared at me like it knew who I was. Like it was waiting. Watching. My skin crawled. My chest tightened.
I raised a shaky hand to my forehead. My fingers came away wet and red. Blood. Not a cut—something worse. Something deep. I didn't remember the pain. I didn't remember anything.
How did I get here?
I sat up, slow and unsteady. The bed creaked beneath me, loud and sharp, like something growling from the shadows. Every inch of the room was polished, elegant, and cold. Silver and emerald hung like trophies, but there was no comfort in it. Only threat. Only a warning.
I stood too fast. The floor swayed under me. My knees buckled, but I caught myself on the bedpost, breathing hard. The panic came fast, pounding in my throat, crawling up my spine. I stumbled to the door, grabbed the handle, and twisted. Locked. I yanked harder. It rattled but didn't budge.
Trapped.
I pressed my forehead to the door, trying to listen through the thick wood. Nothing. Not a whisper. Not a breath. Just that awful silence, buzzing in my ears, heavier than any curse.
I turned and really looked at the room—and froze.
My robes were gone. Replaced. Folded neatly on the chair were new ones: Slytherin robes, stitched in silver thread. A green-and-silver tie lay coiled on the desk like a dead snake. My schoolbooks were there, but… different. Twisted. The titles the same, but the covers shimmered with serpents. Even my quills moved slightly, slithering across the parchment like they were alive.
This wasn't just a room. It was a message. A mockery.
I sat down hard on the edge of the bed. My chest felt hollow, scraped out. This couldn't be real—but it was. I wasn't dreaming. I couldn't wake up. The magic here was too strong. Too precise.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to break the mirror on the wall, to rip the robes, and to burn the books. But I didn't move. I couldn't. The fear rooted me. And underneath the fear was something worse—emptiness.
I wiped at my eyes angrily. The tears just kept coming, burning hot. I wasn't supposed to fall apart. Not now. Not again. But I did.
They wanted me broken. Whoever did this. They wanted me to feel lost, to question everything—maybe even myself. Maybe even what house I belonged in. Maybe even who I was.
I was alone. Completely, utterly alone.
I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to block out the whispers in my head—laughter, dark and cruel. Death Eaters. Tom Riddle. Dumbledore's fall. Everything crashing down.
"What now?" I said into the dark. My voice sounded small. Thin. Like it didn't belong to me anymore. "What the hell am I supposed to do?"
No answer. Just shadows and cold and that mocking crest still watching me. I wanted to scream—but it would only echo back at me.
So I sat there, breathing in the silence, shaking, and feeling something inside me begin to unravel.
I don't know how long I sat there. Could've been minutes. Could've been hours. Time didn't feel real anymore—it stretched and twisted, thick and slow like treacle. My heart wouldn't stop racing, like it was trying to outrun something my mind hadn't caught up to yet.
A low creak echoed from somewhere beyond the door, and my body locked up. I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Someone—or something—was out there. My skin went cold. Every sound in the silence was a threat.
But nothing happened.
Just one noise. Just enough to remind me I wasn't safe. That I was being watched. Or worse—forgotten.
I forced myself to stand again, legs shaky beneath me. I stumbled toward the desk and grabbed the tie, the green-and-silver thing that didn't belong to me. I squeezed it in my hand like it might suddenly explain everything. But it was just cloth. Just a symbol of a lie.
They wanted me to believe I belonged here.
That thought sat in my chest like poison.
I turned to the mirror on the wall and almost didn't recognise myself. My face was pale, drawn, and bruised under the eyes. Blood streaked down one side, drying at the edge of my jaw. My scar was red and angry, like it had been split open again. My eyes looked hollow. Wrong.
Was this what they wanted me to become?
I reached for the mirror, fingers grazing the glass. For one second, I thought I saw something behind me—just a flicker. Movement. But when I turned around, the room was still.
The fear was turning into something else now. Something darker. Something that curled at the edges of my thoughts and whispered: you're not getting out.
I backed away from the mirror. From the desk. From the bed. Like the whole room might collapse inward and swallow me whole.
I was shaking again. My hands wouldn't stop. My legs felt like they'd give out at any second. I pressed my palms to my face and tried to breathe—but every breath felt wrong, too sharp, too shallow.
What did they do to me?
Was this magic? A potion? A curse? Or was I already gone—some broken piece of myself shoved into a room that looked like Hogwarts but wasn't?
I thought of Ron. Hermione. Ginny. I tried to picture their faces. Hear their voices.
But they felt far away. Like memories from another life. A life I didn't know how to get back to.
My throat tightened. I wanted them. I wanted someone. Anyone. But there was no one.
Just me. And the dark.
I sank to the floor, back against the wall, arms wrapped around my knees. I closed my eyes, but the silence wasn't quiet—it whispered. Old screams. Broken laughter. A baby crying. My name, over and over again, in a voice that wasn't human.
I covered my ears, shaking my head.
"No. Stop. Please."
But the voices didn't stop.
And I didn't know if they were real—or just part of me now.
The creak of the door tore through the silence like a scream.
I flinched. Not from the sound itself, but from what it meant. Movement. Another confrontation. Another threat.
I stood too quickly, my breath catching in my throat, my chest heaving like I'd just surfaced from underwater. The cold stone floor pressed against my bare feet, grounding me—but barely. My hands trembled. I scanned the room for my wand even though I already knew it wasn't there. It never was. They always made sure of that.
Useless.
It echoed in my skull. Time had become a blur. Darkness bled into more darkness. Pain into pain.
I turned toward the door. Toward the shadow that now filled it.
Draco Malfoy.
His pale face looked almost ghostly in the dim light, as if the mark on his arm had already begun hollowing him out from the inside. The sneer on his lips was familiar—weaponised, practised. But it didn't hide the truth. He looked thinner. More brittle. His eyes had a hunted look, despite all his posturing.
But none of that mattered.
The second I saw the mark—that mark—on his forearm, rage surged up so fast I nearly choked on it. My fists clenched so tightly my nails dug crescent moons into my palms.
You. You let them in. You let him die.
Dumbledore's last moments flashed behind my eyes—the way he fell, silent and still, like the magic had been ripped from him. I'd replayed it a thousand times. And every time, it ended with that awful silence. That impossible, bottomless quiet.
And Malfoy had been there for it.
"I should kill you," I said, and my voice didn't sound like mine. It was something hoarse and hollow. Something scraped raw.
He smirked. "You can't even lay a hand on me."
I moved without thinking, lunging toward him—but the pain stopped me short. It came out of nowhere, slicing through my arm like fire under the skin. I staggered back, gasping. My knees buckled. The room tilted.
The pain was worse than the Cruciatus. Deeper. It felt like something inside me was unravelling.
"What the hell…?"
Malfoy raised his sleeve even more theatrically. The Dark Mark coiled on his skin like it was alive.
"You feel it, don't you?" He said, his voice low. "The bond. The magic you don't understand. The Dark Lord did something to you, Potter. You're marked, just like us. And now you're bound to it. That's why it hurts."
I shook my head, backing away like his words were poison. "No."
But the pain didn't lie.
"Touch any of us with the Mark," he continued, "and your magic recoils. It's like trying to strangle yourself."
I felt sick. A cold sweat broke out down my spine.
What has he done to me?
I stared at my hands like they didn't belong to me. I could feel my magic—it was still there, inside me—but it was twisted now. Muted. Like it was watching me from a distance.
He took a step closer. "He owns you now."
I let out a hollow laugh, full of venom. "He'll never own me."
"Keep telling yourself that," he said. "But every time you try to fight us, your own magic will punish you. That's not resistance, Potter. That's a leash."
I wanted to scream. Not at him—at myself. For being weak. For letting them do this to me. For not being fast enough. For notsaving him.
I turned my face away, swallowing the grief that surged up like bile. Dumbledore. I failed you. I'd promised I'd protect the school. The students. The mission. And now I was here—disarmed, shackled, defiled by the same magic that destroyed him.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" I asked, my voice low. "Just say it."
He hesitated—just for a second—and then said, "The Dark Lord is waiting. In the Great Hall."
I looked up sharply. "Why?"
A cruel smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "He wants to make an example of you."
My stomach dropped.
"Tell him I'm not coming."
"You are coming," Malfoy said sharply. "Unless you want him to start hurting your little friends instead."
A flicker of Ginny's face—bloody, screaming—flashed behind my eyes. Hermione's terrified voice. Ron's fury. Neville, standing in front of me like a shield. I clenched my teeth.
"You think threatening them will make me obedient?"
"I think you've always cared too much," Malfoy said. "And that makes you predictable."
I hated how calm he sounded. I hated that part of me knew he was right.
But deeper than the hate, deeper than the fear, was something else.
I remembered the look on Neville's face when he stood between me and Bellatrix, wand shaking but unyielding. I remembered Hermione's scream as she fought off Dolohov, her eyes blazing with fire. I remembered Ginny reaching for me through the flames, even as the world burnt.
They weren't afraid to die for me.
So I can't be afraid to live for them.
I met Malfoy's eyes again. "You said he owns me," I said. "But you're the one carrying out his orders. You're the one wearing his mark. You tell me—who's the real slave here?"
His smirk faltered.
I took a shaky breath. The pain hadn't left. But I was still standing.
Malfoy turned without another word.