𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒-ℍ𝕒𝕣𝕣𝕪 ℙ𝕠𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣❥

𝐃𝐇 𝟑𝟓

Someone choked.

The sound was wet, sharp, wrong.

Ron and Hermione's heads snapped toward each other—but neither of them had made it.

They looked to Harry, but he was already looking back at them, confusion etched across his tear-streaked face.

Then the sound came again—louder this time. A desperate, strangled cough that clawed at the silence.

And that's when Harry looked down.

At Emily.

Her chest heaved once, violently—then her body jolted, and a spray of dark blood erupted from her mouth, splattering across her clothes, staining Harry's hands.

"EMILY!" he screamed, his voice cracking, pure panic tearing through every syllable.

He pulled her up, one arm around her trembling shoulders, the other rubbing hard circles on her back. She choked and gasped, retching as more blood spilled out—but as she coughed, the red began to darken.

Black.

Thick, oily streams of it poured from her lips, searing the ground as they hit.

Ron and Hermione stood frozen, horror and helplessness etched on their faces. But nothing compared to the look on Harry's. Tears were still streaming down his cheeks as he held her tighter, desperate, almost frantic, rubbing her back harder—like he could force the poison out of her by sheer will.

"Come on, Em," he whispered through gritted teeth, "come on—breathe, damn it—breathe."

The coughing slowed. The black liquid finally stopped.

Emily trembled violently, her face pale green, her eyes glassy and unfocused. When she looked up at Harry, her whole body was shaking so hard she could barely hold her head up.

Harry didn't know if it was pain or fear—or both—but it broke something in him. He wanted it to stop. He wanted her to stop hurting. To stop saving everyone but herself.

Because she had saved everyone. And she was still alive. Barely—but alive.

"What's happening to me?" she gasped, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. "Harry, I'm scared."

"Hey," Harry whispered, voice breaking, his thumb brushing the blood from her lips, "you'll be okay. I've got you. You're okay."

Emily collapsed forward, falling into his lap. Harry gathered her up, arms tightening around her shaking body. It felt so wrong—because this was what she used to do. Every time he was the one breaking—when his scar burned, when the nightmares clawed through his mind—it was always Emily holding him. Whispering that he was safe. That it was over.

Now it was his turn.

To hold her.
To keep her safe.
To take away the pain.

"I killed them," Emily sobbed, her voice small and cracking. Her eyes darted to the field around them—where the bodies of Death Eaters lay cold and lifeless in the grass. "I killed them all. I'm—I'm a—"

Harry grabbed her face, forcing her to look at him. His hands shook, but his eyes burned with something fierce and unyielding.

"Stop. Don't look. Don't say that." His voice was rough, but steady. "You did what you had to do—what you've always done. This doesn't change who you are. It doesn't change how I see you."

"I'm dangerous, Harry," she whispered, tears streaking through the dirt and blood on her cheeks. "All these years, I've been putting you in danger. I wasn't born normal—I was never meant to be. I shouldn't be around anyone. I should've stayed away from—"