A Horcrux's Fate

Chapter 22

The news of Harry Potter's death spread like wildfire through the tangled trees, carrying on a Death Eater's cruel voice that split the night like a jagged blade. The sound echoed in the dark, cold and sharp, and it felt as though the very forest recoiled.

Arthur sat frozen, his silhouette carved from shadow. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat heavy and hollow. The stars above blinked silently, bright and indifferent, a cruel contrast to the chaos stirring within him. The night should have been peaceful. Instead, it was a grave.

He watched as Hagrid collapsed beside Harry's body, his enormous frame trembling with each sob. "Yeh told me yeh'd be okay this time..." Hagrid's voice cracked and broke as he reached out with shaking hands to brush Harry's still face. His fingers, usually so sure and gentle, hovered uncertainly, as if afraid to touch what they already knew was gone.

Arthur's breath caught. The sight of Hagrid—strong, loyal Hagrid—so utterly undone pierced something deep inside him. Tears welled in Arthur's eyes, reflecting the faint silver of the stars, but within them swirled a far deeper darkness. Memories flickered like old film: Harry's shy smile at the Burrow, the quiet conversations about Muggle inventions, the fierce love he held for his friends—for his children.

It all seemed so distant now. So impossibly out of reach.

Hagrid leaned over and gently pulled the blanket back over Harry's face, a final act of tenderness. The motion was soft, reverent, as if he still hoped the boy might stir. But the stillness remained.

Arthur didn't move. Couldn't. He sat rooted to the spot as the full weight of his guilt settled across his shoulders like a leaden cloak. I should have been there, he thought, the words curling in his chest like smoke. I should have protected him.

"I should have been there," he whispered aloud, his voice swallowed by the trees.

Not far off, Molly sobbed into her hands. Her body shook with the force of her grief, and each agonised cry from Hagrid sent fresh daggers into her heart. Their family—once filled with laughter and love—had been reduced to this unbearable silence. Arthur knew he should go to her, hold her, anchor her. But the pain had turned his limbs to stone. He could only watch, helpless, as the world unravelled around them.

Laughter echoed suddenly, low and venomous.

The Death Eaters. The vultures in the shadows.

Arthur didn't need to look to know their expressions—smug, gleeful, intoxicated by the power they thought they'd claimed. Their joy in the face of Harry's death turned Arthur's stomach. It was grotesque. They didn't mourn. They gloated. Their laughter was a sickness, wrapping itself around the clearing like smoke from a dying fire.

His jaw clenched.

"Slughorn," Arthur murmured, his gaze drifting to the professor who knelt nearby. The man looked dazed, broken—his eyes vacant and shimmering with unshed tears. His fine robes were torn and soiled, his hands stained from cradling a fallen hero. Arthur saw in him a mirror of his own grief: powerless, ashamed, and lost.

And still—beneath all of it—something darker stirred.

Arthur's mind flashed back to Shell Cottage, to the desperate preparations before the battle. Had they done something wrong? Had the ritual failed? Had his decision to leave—however brief—cost them everything?

His chest tightened. His thoughts turned to Ginny, Ron, and Hermione, their faces flashing through his mind like lightning strikes. Where were they now? Were they safe? Alive?

Panic surged. His throat closed. He bit hard into his lip, trying to stop the wave of fear from crashing down. "They aren't dead," he told himself, the words small and fragile. But it was something. The only thing he had left to hold onto.