TW/ panic attacks, (non explicit) s3xual a$$ault of a teenager, vomit, fire, memories of death.
This is, henceforth, a reminder that your mental health is more important than a scene in a fic, or the fic itself, and to please take care of yourself first and foremost here. Skip the scenes mentioned below if you're not feeling your best or the list above includes one of your triggers 3
The scene where most (if not all) of these triggers happen starts with "The Forbidden Forest. The final battle." and ends with "The residue of their memories still clung to him like smoke."
For a more detailed explanation (i.e: a summary of what happens), please consult the end notes.
Hours.
It must have beenhoursof spell casting and failed attempts that got them pretty much nowhere, and Harry felt like he might lose it. They had long since abandoned the sitting room, preferring to go out into the shifting corridors when their seats had begun to bite them in the arse—literally. That had been hours ago, too. Malfoy was now pacing along the corridor, his annoyance radiating off him like a dark cloud ready to burst into a monsoon. But even his sarcastic grumbling couldn't drown out the miserable atmosphere in Grimmauld Place. The house wasn't reacting to anything they did. Or rather, reacting positively, because twice had it dropped debris on them whenever a spell sizzled with promise.
Alas, no matter what spell Malfoy cast, the house remained resolute in its intention to make them lose their minds. And every time they failed, the possibility of escaping with their sanity intact seemed to move just out of their reach, as though the house itself was playing a game of keep-away.
And Harry wasn't sure they could win.
He wiped sweat from his brow, ignoring the twisted look Malfoy sent him. "This is useless," he muttered under his breath, a phrase that had become all too familiar to them over the last several hours. "No matter what we do, it keeps rejecting every spell we send its way."
"Really? What gave you that impression, Potter? Was it the shifting walls or the fact that we keep making the bloody house drop roofs on our head?" Malfoy's voice was tinged with dry sarcasm as he surveyed their dilapidated surroundings once more.
They had come out of the drawing room hours ago with determination in their eyes and hope in their hearts.
Guess they'd vastly overestimated their skills.
Harry's only response was a sharp glare, but Malfoy didn't even acknowledge it, too caught up in his own frustration. His normally immaculate appearance had been reduced to something that looked borderline disarrayed—which was saying something considering who he was, the fussy git—; his clothes were wrinkled and dusty, hair tangled, and his face was now streaked with dirt and sweat. Still, he managed to maintain that aura of superiority that he had always kept around him, as though the entire situation was a mere inconvenience to his dignity.
"The point is," Malfoy continued, more impatient now, "the magic here isn't responding to spells. It's responding to us—our emotions, our intent. We need to explore that, explore this place with the intention of getting out, Potter. Actually move, instead of going around in circles like clueless idiots waiting for a miracle."
Harry sighed, his patience nearly gone. "Right. So, the house is like a sentient being having a tantrum, you said. And you think walking through this ever-shifting labyrinth is going to calm it down?" He raised an eyebrow, a mix of disbelief and sarcasm creeping into his voice.
"Yes, Potter, that's exactly what I think. Now, shut up and follow me," Malfoy didn't wait for a response before marching ahead, clearly unwilling to let Harry make things worse by continuing to stand there sulking.
"How are we going to manage not walking around in circles when that's all the house makes us do?" Asked Harry next, incredulous. But Malfoy didn't reply, he just kept walking briskly.
With no other choice, Harry reluctantly followed, though his mind kept circling back to one thing: the more they argued, the more the house twisted around them, distorting their surroundings, making them lose track of the layout. Every time their emotions spiked, the place seemed to respond, warping into something darker, stranger. Harry couldn't shake the feeling that the house was deliberately trying to disorient them.
The hallway they arrived at next was barely recognisable. The walls, which should have been lined with portraits and black family ornaments, were warped. The air smelled thick, almost metallic, and the wallpaper peeled away in tatters like skin. The furniture that remained in the room—broken and strewn about, like in the other hallways—seemed to have been twisted and contorted by the house's magic. The once-grand ornaments of the Black family now appeared as grotesque mockeries of themselves. An antique candelabra sat in a corner, the candles long extinguished, but the shadows it cast danced unnervingly across the floor as if they were still burning.
"Look at this mess," Malfoy said with disgust, shoving a chair aside with a sneer. "Somewhere in here is probably a priceless heirloom that could have paid off my father's freedom. It's all just been ruined."
Harry barely listened, his thoughts drifting toward the ancient objects around them. Black family treasures were scattered throughout, dust-covered and abandoned—just like the house. His gaze lingered on a particular piece, a delicate vase, cracked but still bearing the intricate design of an ancient Black. It was a small window into the history of the family that had lived here for centuries, a piece of a legacy now lost to chaos and time.
"Don't get too sentimental," Malfoy muttered, looking away from the surrounding disaster of furnishings and heirlooms and towards Harry, who had been standing in silence, looking around with wide eyes. "We're not here to catalogue my tragic family history, Potter."
"You don't have to tell me that," gritted Harry, trying to keep his temper at bay.
"Then, if you're done gaping at the antiques, let's get on with it."
He didn't reply.
They moved deeper into the labyrinth of hallways, keeping their wits about them as best they could, but every turn felt wrong. The place felt alive in ways that were almost tangible, as though the walls themselves had eyes. Harry had to force his thoughts to stay sharp as his stomach twisted with a mix of dread and the ever-present sense of being watched, though he imagined it to be the house's magic itself.
It didn't help that they were increasingly aware of said magic. The more they argued, the more chaotic the space became, confirming that the labyrinth was somehow tethered to their very emotions. Harry felt it each time he snapped at Malfoy or when the latter's biting remarks got under his skin. The house seemed to respond, reacting to their growing tension by twisting itself further and looping around, disorienting them.
As they turned yet another corner in silence, Harry confirmed his theory. The layout of the place seemed to shift less violently when they were calm, more controlled. It was a subtle thing, but Harry could feel it the longer they went without biting each other's head off, the tension in his chest loosening ever so slightly as he forced himself to focus, to stay composed. Even if his bad mood made him want to snap at Malfoy for the smallest things.
He took a deep breath, pushing down the irritation bubbling up inside him. Beside him, Malfoy did the same. They exchanged glances before continuing onward. The corridor ahead of them was dark and narrow, lit only by the light emanating from the sconces on the walls or the random chandelier. Even when there were no windows in any of the corridors, a soft breeze rustled the curtains, sending a chill down Harry's spine. The hairs on his arms stood on end as the wind whispered across his skin, carrying with it a strange sensation—like electricity prickling against his flesh. He shook off the feeling, ignoring the goosebumps that rose along his neck.
Harry followed Malfoy through another hallway, this one lined with portraits empty of what Harry assumed to be various Black ancestors. Their footsteps echoed loudly against the stone floor, making him cringe at how loud they sounded despite walking softly. Everything about this place seemed designed to make noise, from the creaking wood beneath their feet to the groaning pipes above their heads. Every sound amplified by whatever magic kept the house alive.
And every sound set Harry further on edge.
The air grew thicker as they moved deeper into the house, the smell becoming even more potent than before. The scent was familiar, but foreign enough to leave him uneasy. It reminded him vaguely of the smell of an electrical fire after a lightning strike, the crackle of ozone still hanging in the air. His stomach clenched again as he realised where he had smelled it before. It was similar to the way the air smelled during storms when the sky opened up and thunder rolled overhead, heavy with promise.
His heart pounded harder.
They came to another junction and paused. Ahead of them lay yet another corridor, this one darker than the others, shrouded in shadows. The walls seemed to press closer together here, narrowing until they almost touched each other, leaving only a small gap between them for them to pass, just enough for them to pass through. Harry could barely see past the darkness beyond the entranceway, unable to make out anything except a faint outline of shapes past the gap. He swallowed hard and tried to ignore the nervous flutter in his belly. Beside him, Malfoy stiffened slightly, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of whatever unknown danger lurked ahead. Harry glanced at him sideways, noting how tense he appeared. He looked like he wanted nothing more than to turn around and go back the way they'd come. But instead, he took a deep breath and stepped forward, moving cautiously towards the opening in front of them. Harry hesitated for a moment before following suit, not wanting to appear cowardly next to bloody Malfoy.
The atmosphere became heavier the deeper they ventured into the passageway. The air felt thick and syrupy, pressing against Harry's lungs like wet wool, making it difficult to breathe properly. Sweat trickled down his forehead as his breathing grew ragged, and his legs ached from walking so far without stopping. His vision swam, blurring around the edges as dizziness overtook him. Finally, he stumbled, catching himself on a nearby wall.
Malfoy grabbed his arm roughly, steadying him. "Hurry up, you prick," he hissed impatiently, glaring daggers at Harry before continuing forward.
Harry gritted his teeth, forcing himself to follow after Malfoy despite the discomfort. They walked slowly through the dark corridor until finally reaching an intersection leading off to both sides. Neither knew which path to take, so they chose the right one randomly. As soon as they entered the new passageway, the air changed once again, becoming lighter and less stifling. The smell dissipated somewhat, though Harry could still detect traces of it lingering in the background. It was now mixed with something else—something sharp and metallic, almost like blood but, not quite.
His nostrils flared instinctively as he inhaled deeply, trying to identify what exactly caused such an unpleasant aroma. Before he could figure it out, however, he noticed movement up ahead. Something shifted within the shadows, causing a shiver to run down his spine.
"What the fuck was that?" He whispered fearfully, pointing towards the source of his uneasiness. Malfoy followed his gaze and frowned deeply, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"You're imagining things, Potter," he replied quietly, stepping closer to examine whatever lurked inside the darkness. Harry remained close behind him, watching intently as Malfoy leaned forward cautiously, peering into the murky depths of the corridor. There was nothing visible at first glance; only blackness filled every corner, obscuring anything beyond their sight. After several seconds passed without incident, Malfoy began to relax slightly.
"I don't see anything," he muttered under his breath. "You must be seeing things."
Harry shook his head vehemently. "No. I saw something move... right there!" He insisted, pointing towards where he'd seen the strange movement earlier. Malfoy glanced back over his shoulder at Harry before turning to face forward again, squinting hard into the gloomy interior of the passageway.
Another few moments went by in silence, until finally, Malfoy exhaled loudly through his nose. "Are you hallucinating? Do I need to be worried about you going mad in here?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest with clear annoyance.
Harry scowled angrily at the blond man beside him, his frustration building rapidly inside him. How dare this pompous prick accuse him of seeing things when there was clearly something moving around out there?
"Oh, sod off, Malfoy. You think I'm making it up because you're a coward and don't want to investigate what it is!" Spat Harry venomously, glaring daggers at the other man.
Malfoy spun around sharply, glaring daggers back at Harry. "There is nothing there, Potter," he snarled furiously, his expression twisting into one of disgust as he motioned sharply towards the end of the corridor. "Whatever you thought you saw was just a figment of your pathetic imagination."
"Bullshit!" Harry shouted back, taking another step toward Malfoy until they stood toe-to-toe. "Why don't you take a look yourself instead of standing there calling me pathetic?"
The moment Malfoy finished talking, there was a loud crack in the air, like lighting striking. The two men jumped and then stilled, listening intently for any other noises coming from within the dark tunnel. When none came, Harry relaxed slightly, glancing around nervously as if expecting something to jump out at them unexpectedly. Beside him, Malfoy remained tense and alert, scanning their surroundings carefully with narrowed eyes.
After several minutes had passed without incident, Harry finally broke the silence between them.
"Oi, Malfoy," Harry muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Remember when we said we need to try not to kill each other for a few minutes?"
Malfoy shot him a sidelong glance, a sneer on his face, but after a beat, he sighed and looked down. "Fine. But the moment this entire situation stops being a complete disaster, I reserve the right to gloat."
Harry rolled his eyes, but they both fell into an uncomfortable silence as they navigated through the corridor. Yet, the house's magic, it seemed, had been listening. The air lightened, and the walls straightened slightly, as though they were no longer shifting just to spite them. They moved cautiously, stepping carefully around the warped remnants of furniture and shattered relics that littered the floor. Their footsteps echoed loudly in the otherwise silent space, making Harry cringe inwardly every time one sounded louder than necessary. He kept his wand at the ready, prepared for anything—and hoping desperately that whatever lurked ahead wouldn't notice them before they noticed it first.
It was probably wishful thinking.
As they walked further along the passageway, Harry's heart raced faster, beating wildly against his ribcage as adrenaline pumped through his veins. His palms became sweaty and clammy, causing his grip on his wand to slip slightly. He tightened his fingers around the wooden handle, gripping tightly enough that his knuckles turned white.
He swallowed hard, trying to calm himself down, but the fear continued to build within him. Every sound made him flinch involuntarily, sending shivers down his spine as goosebumps formed across his skin. The hairs on his arms stood erect, tingling uncomfortably as cold sweat dripped down his forehead.
"Maybe we should get out of this corridor," said Malfoy, his voice dry and impatient. "I do not fancy being eaten anytime soon."
Harry glanced over at him quickly before nodding silently, agreeing completely with the sentiment. This place felt wrong somehow. Dangerous. Like something terrible might happen if they stayed here too long. He shuddered involuntarily and quickened his pace, walking alongside Malfoy as fast as possible while still remaining cautious. They moved quietly through the dim'lit corridor, keeping their wits about them despite the heavy magic surrounding them.
Eventually, they reached another intersection, where three different hallways led off in opposite directions. One was brightly lit by torches hanging on either side; another looked empty save for some cobwebs clinging to the walls; and the third appeared pitch black, offering no indication of what lay beyond its depths. Without hesitation, Harry headed straight towards the well-lit hallway, wanting nothing more than to escape from the eerie gloominess behind him. Malfoy followed suit, matching his pace easily.
Neither spoke until they reached a dead end several meters ahead.
Harry cursed under his breath as he stared down at the solid stone wall blocking their path. "We must have taken a wrong turn somewhere," he muttered bitterly, turning back around slowly.
Malfoy scoffed loudly beside him, crossing his arms over his chest. "That's an understatement, Potter."
Harry glared at the blond man next to him angrily. "What? You think you could've done better?"
"Of course I could! It's obvious that we took a wrong turn because there are no other corridors leading off from here!" Malfoy retorted indignantly, pointing towards the solid wall in front of them.
Harry opened his mouth to argue back when suddenly, the air changed again. The temperature dropped drastically, making both men shiver violently as icy tendrils crept up their spines.
"Let's just go into that door," said Harry, suddenly very tired. There were several doors along the walls, but all looked identical.
Malfoy nodded curtly and strode forward, pushing open one of the doors without hesitation. As soon as it swung wide, however, he froze mid-step, his expression morphing from one of tiredness into a strange mix of disgust and curiosity.
"What is it?" asked Harry nervously, peering over the taller man's shoulder curiously.
They wandered into what could only be described as a forgotten study, its air thick with the smell of dust and neglect. The room seemed almost apologetic in its decay—bookshelves sagged under the weight of forgotten tomes, their spines cracked and flaking, while the heavy drapes hung limp and moth-eaten. Shards of a once-elegant chandelier glittered faintly on the floor, catching the dim light that filtered through grime-coated windows. Harry's gaze swept across the room, but it was a painting that snagged his attention—a skewed frame clinging stubbornly to the wall, as though defying the ruin around it. He stepped closer, his boots crunching against scattered debris, and peered at the faded artwork within. Time had worn away much of its detail, but what remained was striking enough to hold his focus.
It wasn't the kind of painting Harry had grown used to in wixen places—no enchanted portraits with wandering subjects or pastoral scenes brought to life. Instead, it was a coat of arms, bold and haunting in its simplicity. Two large dogs, their collars sharp and ceremonial, flanked a shield bearing two parallel stars. Beneath the shield, a single sword stood upright, its hilt ornate, resting on a banner that seemed to proclaim a long-forgotten motto. The entire composition was stark against a deep black background, its proud symmetry made all the more solemn by the layers of dust muting its once-vivid colours.
Harry leaned in slightly, his green eyes narrowing as he traced the image with unspoken reverence. There was something oddly compelling about it, as though it carried the weight of a story no one alive could recount. The sword, in particular, seemed to hold his attention. Its placement was deliberate, commanding respect, while the stars above it hinted at something celestial—aspiration, perhaps, or an alignment long past. The dogs, watchful and stoic, appeared almost lifelike despite the faded pigments.
Harry swallowed thickly, feeling sickened by the sight before him.
"It's the Black family crest," Malfoy muttered and, for the first time in hours, he actually seemed interested and serious. "This... this place was once full of them."
Harry's head snapped up.
"What are you getting at, Malfoy?"
Malfoy didn't answer immediately. He couldn't. His mind spun with the weight of what they were standing in, the implications unfurling like a dark tapestry. This house wasn't merely a decaying labyrinth; it was a living, breathing manifestation of the Black family's legacy. The magic woven into its walls lingered thick and potent, tied to every creaking floorboard and cobwebbed corner. It wasn't just reacting to their presence—it was watching, listening, judging.
Without a word, as if pulled by some unseen force, Malfoy began to move. His footsteps were slow, deliberate, the sound of his shoes muffled against the worn rug as he crossed the room. His eyes remained fixed on the painting, specifically on the words etched into the banner below the crest.
Toujours Pur.
The Black family's infamous motto. The words seemed to glow faintly in the dim light, their meaning heavy with centuries of pride, prejudice, and power. He stopped just short of the frame, his pale hand lifting hesitantly before falling back to his side, as though even touching the air around it might disturb something sacred—or cursed.
"It's not just a crest," he murmured at last, his voice low, more to himself than Harry. "It's... everything. Their history, their beliefs, their magic. It's all here, Potter. In this house. In this bloody coat of arms."
There was something almost reverent in the way he said it, though not without a bitter edge. Malfoy sounded jaded. He tilted his head, his grey eyes tracing the details of the crest as if he could uncover its secrets through sheer will. The dogs flanking the shield were regal yet menacing, their collars like chains of loyalty. The stars on the shield, so simple and stark, hinted at a celestial order—divine approval, perhaps, for a family that had long believed themselves chosen. And the sword, standing solitary beneath it all, was both a symbol of protection and domination.
"Always pure," Malfoy repeated, his tone sharp now, cutting through the dusty silence. "It's a lie, of course. Still, the Blacks—my mother's family—built their entire existence on it. But look around. Even their precious house couldn't hold together under the weight of their hypocrisy."
Harry watched him in silence, feeling the weight of the moment, but unsure what to say. The room seemed heavier now, the coat of arms looming over them like a silent judge, its gaze unyielding and eternal.
Malfoy's gaze remained fixed on the coat of arms, the faint paint ofToujours Purseeming to pull him deeper into a thrall. His grey eyes traced each detail with the intensity of someone unravelling a riddle only they could see. He was silent, motionless, as though the very air around the crest had ensnared him. The words beneath the shield whispered their cruel promise in his mind—always pure, always better, always bound by the weight of a legacy that was impossible to escape. The crest seemed alive, its ancient magic thrumming faintly in his veins, stirring something he couldn't quite name.
"Wait," Harry said sharply, stepping forward and gripping his arm. The warmth of Harry's touch seemed to have jostled him slightly, snapping the spelllike grip of the painting just enough for him to blink and glance sideways.
Harry wasn't looking at him, though. His sharp green eyes scanned the room, narrowing as they landed on a battered chest in the far corner. It was plain and unremarkable at first glance, but something about it made Harry's gut twist uncomfortably. The air seemed colder now, prickling against his skin like icy needles. He frowned, taking a step toward it.
The chest rattled.
"Malfoy—" he began, but stopped as he noticed Draco hadn't moved. The other man was still rooted in place, his expression unreadable as he stared at the Black crest, a deep furrow forming between his brows. Whatever trance had momentarily broken seemed to have taken hold of him again, his mind clearly elsewhere.
"Malfoy," Harry said again, more urgently, glancing back at the chest as it gave another ominous shake. The gnawing feeling in his stomach grew sharper, a warning that whatever was inside wouldn't be waiting patiently. He reached out, gripping Draco's shoulder this time, giving him a small shake. "Forget the bloody painting. Something's about to jump at us, and I'd rather not be here to greet it."
Draco blinked, the frown still etched into his face as he finally tore his gaze from the crest. The chest rattled again, more violently this time, the sound echoing ominously in the dusty room.
"Malfoy, snap out of it!" Harry snapped, his voice urgent.
But the room had already begun to change.
"Malfoy!" shouted Harry, as he tugged at the blonde's jumper insistently. Malfoy, his face turning from the motto in irritation, quickly looked around, and his expression quickly became that of genuine concern. He quickly stepped into Harry's side just as the chest burst open.
From the chest emerged... something—a figure, not quite human, but something twisted, an apparition that seemed to materialise out of the very air around it. It was dark, its form shifting, like a shadow clinging to a shape it barely understood. The edges of its figure seemed to flicker in and out of focus, as though it existed at the edge of Harry's vision, only fully manifesting when he wasn't looking directly at it. The world around him shifted in an instant, the solid floor beneath his feet giving way to a forest, dense and suffocating. The trees towered above him, their branches tangled like claws, reaching down toward him as if to pull him into their suffocating embrace. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and decay, the ground soft and treacherous beneath his boots, making every step feel as though he was sinking into the darkness.
"I—where?" Harry began, but his words died as the scene grew clearer, darker.
The forest before him morphed, twisting, warping. A heavy, oppressive weight settled in his chest, and Harry felt the all-too-familiar sensation of dread wash over him. The forest, with its gnarled trees and unnatural stillness, was something he had seen too many times in his dreams—nightmares, more like—, those that had haunted him for five long years.
It wastheforest.
It was always the forest.
He had tried to forget about it, tried to bury it deep inside, but it had always found its way back to him. The dark, twisted woods, the sense of being watched, the choking silence that pressed against his thoughts.
The Forbidden Forest. The final battle.
Of course he recognised it. How could he forget? The way the shadows clung to the trees, the eerie quietness that wrapped around him like a blanket. He was standing in the same cold, dark part of the woods, waiting for something that always seemed just out of reach. The last place he'd seen his parents, Remus... Sirius. The cold, damp air pressed in on him, the fear clawing at his throat. The shadows stretched long, and Harry could hear the faint echoes of curses—voices from the past, from the moment that had claimed him. As he moved through the shadowy thicket, Harry could hear a faint whispering at the edges of his mind, it made his skin crawl. His heart pounded louder with each step.
"Not again..." Harry breathed, taking a step back, but his feet felt like they were glued to the spot. The memories flooded back like a roaring river—his final steps into the forest to face Voldemort, to give himself up, the terror of knowing he was walking toward his death.
The distant sound of the battle beyond the trees, the eerie silence before his final sacrifice.
Around him, the air seemed to shift with a low, mournful hum. Harry's pulse quickened. This place... his nightmares, had somehow followed him even here.
And then, from the darkness, a figure stepped forward. Harry's breath hitched as he stared at the faint outline, his mind unwilling to accept the truth of what he was seeing. The figure—impossibly familiar in the way it made Harry's blood chill in his veins—was cloaked in shadow, but Harry could still make out the shape, the posture. The way it moved with an eerie grace that only confirmed his worst fear.
It was him.Voldemort.
But it wasn't. It couldn't be. It was a twisted version of him, a nightmarish reflection, bent and warped by Harry's own panicked mind. He could feel the cold grip of fear in his chest as the figure's presence loomed over him, its hollow eyes burning through him. The forest seemed to close in tighter, the trees bowing toward him, the air thick with the sickening scent of death and despair.
Harry could hear a voice now, slithering through the forest in a familiar tone—soft, cold, mocking. It whispered his name. His blood ran cold, but he couldn't move, couldn't speak.
"Avada Kedavra," the shadow of Voldemort said, that green, poisonous light coming towards him once again.
To take him away one last time.
"Potter! Potter, it's not real!" Malfoy's anguished voice broke through Harry's own panic, but it was a distant echo in his ears. Harry barely registered the sound of the blonde's pleas, caught in the grip of the memory. This was his deepest fear, his darkest memory—the one thing that had never stopped haunting him. The memory of that flash of green and then... nothing.
But then, Voldemort's gaze shifted, locking onto Malfoy, who Harry suddenly realised had been standing beside him the entire time. The blonde's usually composed face was ashen, his complexion sickly in a way that reminded Harry of their sixth year, his wide, terrified eyes betraying a vulnerability Harry had rarely seen. He was frozen, like prey caught in the sight of its predator. Voldemort's blood-red eyes narrowed, and a cruel grin split his snake-like face. It wasn't just a smile—it was the grin of something inhuman, a creature that delighted in suffering, sharp teeth glinting as though savouring the thought of sinking into its victim.
The air grew heavier, almost abrasive in its malice, as Harry's pulse quickened. Before he could react, the forest around them wavered, its colours draining as if sucked into a void. The scene dissolved into something even darker, colder, and suffocatingly close. The walls, slimy and wet, seemed to press inward, and from somewhere deep within the shadows came the low, guttural growl of a beast. It wasn't just any sound—it was a promise of violence, raw and primal, reverberating in the stillness like the first warning crack of a storm. The air stank of blood and damp earth, and Harry felt a chill crawl up his spine as dread coiled tight in his chest at the memory it evoked.
Fenrir Greyback.
"No..." Malfoy gasped this time, bringing his pale hand towards his mouth, barely able to breathe as he watched helplessly the scene in front of them changing rapidly.
The room twisted with a grotesque symphony of unnatural, grinding sounds, pulling Malfoy into a memory so visceral and raw that his knees threatened to give way beneath him. Harry watched, horrified, as the scene solidified around them—a space that should have been a sanctuary but was anything but. The cold, imposing stone walls of Malfoy Manor loomed over them, their grandeur rendered hollow and malevolent under the weight of an invisible evil. The elegance that must have once defined the space was drowned beneath an imposing fog of terror, choking out the remnants of its former splendour.
They were in a bedroom—or rather, the ghost of one. The four-poster bed, once a symbol of wealth and privilege with its rich velvet curtains and intricate carvings, now stood as a silent witness to pain. Dragons and snakes adorned every surface, their gleaming eyes dull in the dim, unnatural light. Above, the ceiling depicted a night sky full of constellations, but the stars seemed to flicker weakly, as if the memory itself was sapping their light. The pristine sheets that had once dressed the bed were now scattered across the floor in tattered heaps, their destruction a testament to some past frenzy of desperation or violence.
The air was heavy, thick with despair so potent it seemed to cling to Harry's skin. Malfoy's ragged breaths echoed in the suffocating silence, distorted and disjointed, as if the memory itself wanted to drag them both into its agonising depths. Even Harry, who had grown accustomed to facing horrors, felt his chest tighten. It wasn't just fear—it was helplessness, the kind that seeped into your bones and refused to let go.
Time itself seemed to slow, each second stretching unbearably as Harry found himself not just witnessing but reliving the moment through Malfoy's fractured perspective.
Greyback's looming figure dominated the canopy of the bed, his hulking form a grotesque distortion of someone who had long crossed the line between man and beast. The faint light that filtered through the memory's haze stretched his shadow across the room, turning it into something monstrous, alive with menace. His wolfish grin was a chilling mockery of amusement, lips pulling back to reveal jagged teeth stained yellow, sharp enough to tear through flesh. His predatory, amber gaze bore into Malfoy, eyes gleaming with a savage hunger that froze every fibre of his being. The air thickened further, stifling and cloying, as the walls seemed to edge closer, pressing in with a dreadful inevitability. Each second felt stretched into eternity, the once-expansive space of Malfoy's childhood sanctuary now shrinking into an inescapable cage. Every breath was a struggle, the atmosphere soaked in fear and dread, heavy with the unspoken threat that Greyback carried with him like a second skin.
Next to him, Malfoy's legs seemed to be locked in place, his body refusing to move, no matter how loudly his instincts screamed at him to run. Harry could see the cold sweat trickling down the blonde's back, the nausea rising in his stomach as the primal terror of being hunted consumed him.
"Please, please, anything but this..." begged Malfoy, the real Malfoy, next to him. His hands were closed around Harry's upper arm like a vice, so strong they would probably leave bruises. But Harry had not the heart to do anything about it, his voice so desperate and terrified that Harry could do nothing but try to stay still. Malfoy's body trembled, though Harry wasn't sure if it was from the cold or from the memory being pulled from deep within him, making him feel like he was no longer in control of his own body.
At the bed, the werewolf's hand on a teenaged Malfoy's wrist was too tight, the roughness of his touch burning a new mark onto Malfoy's sickly skin. It was a touch that had marked him forever, Harry could see now, one that he would never escape, no matter how many years had passed.
The sound of Fenrir's breathing, heavy and ragged, filled the room, and Harry could hear his own pulse hammering in his ears and his heart beat erratically in his chest. His mouth felt dry, his throat tight with a scream that never came. His mind screamed for him to take the smaller Malfoy and run, to fight back, but his body betrayed him, locked in place by a paralysing terror at the scene unfolding in front of him. The sight was unbearable—one that no one, least of all Malfoy, should ever have to relive, and Harry knew he should close his eyes. Every inch of hiss being recoiled from the scene in front of them—the twisted, predatory glee on Fenrir's face as he closed the distance between him and Malfoy—, but he couldn't close his eyes, not even to give Malfoy some reprieve from what he was being forced to relieve.
With a savage push, the werewolf had shoved the young Malfoy into the bed, before following suit. Sharp claws tore away at the delicate fabric of Malfoy's robes, making windows for the unmarked, luminescent skin of his back to poke through. Once he had finished tearing at the teenage boy's clothing, the hulking man stopped and stood there, straddling Malfoy's skinny thighs, as he took in his creation. The world seemed to slow, the light in the room flickering like it couldn't bear to witness what was happening. Next to him, Malfoy's mind seemed to refuse to process the reality of what he was witnessing, his eyes wide and brimming with tears; all Harry could feel was the overwhelming sense of helplessness, he tried to move them away, but Malfoy wouldn't move.
Harry could see the brutal way the werewolf pounced on Draco and, finally, closed his eyes tightly, unwilling to see the horrific nature of what was happening in front of them. Still, he could hear everything, there was no running from that—Malfoy's cries, muffled and shrill, echoing in the cruel silence of the room, the sound of bodies moving around the sheets...
A sick feeling crawled up his spine as he heard both Malfoy's cries of pain and panic.
He felt sick.
"Stop! Please!" shouted younger Malfoy, his voice not more than a gurgled attempt at mercy. Harry could hear the wet sounds of something slapping against Malfoy, and the urge to reach for his wand overwhelmed him. "Please!"
Next to him, Malfoy—the real one— promptly vomited in front of them.
The memory—for Harry intrinsically knew it was a memory and not a fabricated illusion— continued to play, the Malfoy under Greyback's body crying as he could do nothing to stop the torture he was enduring. It was a sight that Harry would never be able to forget, a scene so venomous and real that it seemed to reach out and taint him, too.
There was no stopping this. No running from it. The house had already decided.
However, his brain was clawing at him to help Malfoy, to stop what was happening just beyond the ruined curtains. He reached for his wand, his hand trembling. He needed todo something. Anything to stop this nightmare from consuming them both.
"Incendio!" he shouted, his voice ragged with desperation.
A burst of flame erupted from the tip of his wand, flames scorching the air and illuminating the memory before them in a warm light. The scene didn't stop, the fire wasn't enough to push the memory back. It merely wrapped itself around the image of Fenrir ravaging Malfoy like a hot embrace, flickering with malicious glee.
It reminded Harry of the Fiendfyre.
Malfoy's breath hitched beside him, and he took one step back from the fire. Harry could feel the weight of his distress, the suffocating grief that he was trying so hard to hide but obviously couldn't. He wasn't just watching the past unfold; he was reliving it, Harry knew it, for he had watched his terrors born anew in front of him just a few minutes ago as well.
The guilt that clung to him like a second skin had been born anew as well, irrational and piercing.
"We can't hide from this," Harry muttered to himself, his voice raw. He knew, too, that he couldn't escape his own memories, let alone Malfoy's. They'd always be there, deep inside their person, ready to come up to the surface.
The fire he had cast in a desperate bid to banish the pain wasn't enough. But the fire—hisfire—was all he had left.
"Incendio!" he screamed again, thrusting his wand forward with a force he didn't know he had left. The room burst into flames, the walls shuddering as the fire consumed everything. Fenrir's figure was engulfed in the flames, his guttural moans and Malfoy's agonising cries drowning in the roar of the flames as they consumed the bed. The heat was suffocating and hellish, but Harry knew he had to stay right there. He knew it,he felt it.
"Malfoy—Malfoy, now! Help me, now!" Harry's voice was barely a whisper, his throat raw, the words barely reaching the other man, who was standing decide him drenched in the dampness of his own terror.
By some miracle, Malfoy's gaze flicked to Harry, his eyes wide, the anguish unmistakable and as clear as his silver irises. But Harry wasn't going to let him fall apart.
Not now.
For a moment, only the fire crackled, consuming the room, the heat suffocating, and for the first time, Harry felt the weight of his own words settle in his chest.Hehad survived the Forest, the war. He had lived, when so many had not, and that gnawed at his chest like a hungry lioness upon an antelope. And that had changed him, for he carried the broken remnants of it with him like an armour. It had shaped him, twisted him into something he didn't want to be. Something he wasn't sure he even recognised anymore.
But he had to learn how live with it. He couldn't let it consume him. He had chosen to come back because hewantedto live. He had people he loved and who loved him. A gift from his parents.
A life worth looking for.
"Malfoy!" Harry barked, the desperation evident in every syllable. "Youcando this!Wecan do this. Fenrir is dead.He's dead.He's gone! He can't hurt you anymore... and you—you—you're stronger than this! You survived it, Malfoy. You are not what happened to you! Not then, not ever!"
Somehow, through the haze of their shared trauma, Harry saw Malfoy's resolve solidify.
"Incendio!" Malfoy shouted, his voice shaking, but his spell was no less potent. A flash of fire erupted from his wand, and the room began to burn hotter, faster. The walls cracked, the ceiling groaned under the intensity of the heat and the magic being cast. Fenrir's image disappeared, consumed by the hellfire, his form dissolving into ash.
Malfoy's face was pale, his eyes wide, but there was something else—something that wasn't fear. It was something else, something more. Something Harry had never seen in him before but felt precious. It was raw, unyielding, and it surprised Harry. But it was there. It was real.
The fire raged on, swallowing the room, until everything was consumed, burned away to nothing but charred remnants. They ere untouched by the fire, whatever magic Grimmauld Place had cast upon them protecting them from the flames. And then, just as quickly as the flames had appeared, they vanished, leaving behind nothing but the charred remains of what had been. The heat died down quickly after, the smoke dissipating into nothing, and the room settled back into the chilly silence that had defined it before.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The room had returned to its previous state, the fire gone, leaving a silence that felt even heavier than before. The oppressive air was thick with the weight of what they had seen, their shared suffering. Harry could feel the sting of the heat on his skin, sweat sliding down the back of his neck.
The residue of their memories still clung to him like smoke.
"That—that was... I..." Malfoy's voice cracked, and Harry didn't need to look at him to know that the words had been forced out.
"I know," Harry agreed softly, his own voice hoarse but kind. "I'm sorry..."
And, as the room slowly shifted back to what it used to be, something else settled between them—somethingunexpected. It was an understanding. A shared moment of vulnerability that neither of them had been prepared for. And it did something to the room they were in, something the house couldn't fight.
The magic receded, the darkness lightened just a little, but they were too focused on chasing away the ghost of their pasts to focus too much on the house. The weight of their mutual silence stretched long into the room, warm and enveloping, like the very air had absorbed the heat of the fire they had just cast. It felt both suffocating and liberating—like a storm that had torn through, leaving the aftermath to settle slowly, leaving them both standing at the centre of it, unsure how to proceed. The world, it seemed, had tilted on its axis during those few, horrible moments. And Harry wasn't quite sure whether it had righted itself or not.
After long, the room stopped shifting. For the first time in what felt like days, there was stillness. No eerie creaks of shifting walls, no overwhelming weight pressing against their bodies, forcing them to fight through the memories that had twisted around them. The oppressive air, thick with magic and fear, had lifted slightly, leaving behind an uncomfortable, aching quiet.
Harry let his wand fall to his side, his hand trembling slightly from the exertion of both his spell-casting and the emotions still coursing through him. He could feel the sweat cooling on his skin, the adrenaline fading from his veins, leaving behind a raw weariness that made him want to sink into the floor and let the weight of it all crush him. But the walls weren't closing in, and the ceiling wasn't about to collapse on them.
For now, at least, the space they stood in was still—and that was something.
He glanced at Malfoy, who stood at his side, his body language distinctly despondent. He looked ready to drop on the spot. There was still fear reverberating within his silver eyes, a flutter of doubt lingering in the depths of his gaze, but it was mingling with that something else, something Harry had seen before.
Strength, maybe. A quiet, unyielding resolve that didn't come from power or arrogance. It came from survival. From continuing to exist after something had tried to shatter him. Harry could see it now, in the way Malfoy held himself. Maybe it had always been there, somewhere under the mas he had worn his whole life, and it had taken being broken down for it to come out.
Not a perfect kind of strength, nor an unshakable one, but a strength born of wounds. At last, Harry realised they were both survivors.
Malfoy swallowed hard, eyes shifting away from Harry's, almost as if he couldn't look him in the face anymore. It wasn't easy, realising that the man you had hated for half your life had seen you during such a vulnerable moment. Harry knew that because now Malfoy had seen his own horrors as well. The quiet between them felt awkward once more, the two of them standing there, unsure of what to say. Harry could feel the threads of a new connection between them, one born out of raw, unexpected vulnerability—stretching taut between them, and for a brief moment, he wondered if it would snap the moment one of them talked.
Malfoy shifted, rubbing at his left arm in an uncharacteristically weary gesture, and Harry suddenly felt another surge of empathy. The weight of their memories, their pasts, was something they both carried now. And for the first time, Harry realised that he didn't have to carry it alone. No one he knew really understood what had happened at the Forest, but now Malfoy did. He had seen it all happen from Harry's point of view. He wondered if Malfoy was feeling something similar.
"You know..." Harry said, his voice quieter than before, but carrying a certain steadiness. "That we can't just pretend none of this happened, Malfoy. I don't know what the future holds, but we can't keep hiding from what happened to us. Our choices make us who we are."
Malfoy's jaw clenched, but he didn't immediately respond. Instead, he took a breath, long and slow, as if the words were too heavy to speak. His lips parted, but it took a moment before anything came out.
"I didn't want this," Malfoy said finally, his voice hoarse, raw. "None of this. You think I wanted it to end up like this? You think I chosethat? "
"Of course not!" Harry said hastily, shaking his head. "I know you didn't. I know. But itdidhappen. And you survived, Malfoy. You survived the worst of it."
Malfoy's hand shook as he reached up to run a hand through his hair, tugging it as if to ground himself in some reality that made sense. But there was no escaping what they had seen. Not in this room. Not ever, probably.
"I... don't know how to go on from this," Malfoy admitted, his voice soft, almost too quiet to hear.
"I don't either," Harry replied, his words sharp, honest. "But we're still standing here. Alive. And that's something, isn't it?"
Malfoy glanced at Harry then, his stormy grey eyes sharp and searching, trying to read Harry's face as if trying to assess his sincerity. It was as if he were waiting for some sign, some king of betrayal or a mocking word.
Harry didn't flinch. He didn't back away. He stood there, grounded in the present, in the knowledge that survival, in whatever twisted form it took, meant something. That they needed each other to stay alive.
After a long moment, Malfoy spoke again, his voice low.
"It's not enough, though, is it? Staying alive? Not when you're just living with the aftermath. The broken pieces. Pieces you can't put back together."
Harry felt his heart tighten in understanding. He wanted to argue with Malfoy, to tell him that survivalwasenough, but he knew better. He had seen too many of his friends—too many people—come out of the war broken. Pieces of themselves scattered across time and memory, irreparable. The Weasleys had never been the same after Fred, Hermione's parents didn't remember they had a daughter half the time... Hell, him most of all, knew how it felt to be broken.
Harry had learned that survival didn't mean being whole. But it didn't mean giving up, either. He couldn't believe that when it was what he had been holding onto for half a decade like a lifeline.
If he let go of it, he was bound to drown.
"No," Harry admitted, "It's not enough. But it's something."
Malfoy's lips twitched, as if he wanted to smile bitterly but couldn't quite manage it. Instead, he let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping. The weight of everything—of the past, of what had happened to them, of their collective trauma—pressed down on both of them. And for a brief moment, Harry understood that they didn't need to speak any more. They didn't need words to understand each other. At least, not when it came tothis.
They just needed to stand together.
They were survivors. And that had to mean something.
After what felt like an eternity, Malfoy spoke again, his voice quiet still but steadier.
"Maybe you're right. Maybe it issomething," he shifted on his feet, his gaze flicking towards the door of the room. "But we're still stuck in here, aren't we? This labyrinth... we haven't got anywhere."
"We will, we're making progress," Harry assured, his voice low as if dealign with a particularly skittish snidget. "The room stopped shifting. That's a win. We've bought ourselves some time."
Malfoy nodded, his gaze still distant. "Time. What we need is luck."
Luck.
Harry didn't know how much they could rely on that. Still, he would give up half his fortune for a single vial ofFelix Felicis, horrible side effects be damned. He stepped forward, his trainers making a soft thud against the stone floor. Malfoy didn't flinch or move; he just watched Harry approach, his eyes wary but not hostile. For the first time in a long time, Harry didn't feel the anger bubbling beneath the surface when he looked at —or thought about— Malfoy. The resentment, the bitterness he always thought when he saw the blonde was dormant. It wasn't gone, not entirely, knowing them they'd end up fighting again sooner rather than later.
But, something had softened. Something had shifted forward.
"We'll get out of here, Malfoy," Harry said, his voice firm. "We'll both get out."
Malfoy didn't respond at first. He just stood there, his posture stiff, his gaze drifting to the floor. But then, after a long moment, he gave a slight nod, his lips pressing into a thin line.
"Fine," he muttered, his voice rough but with a hint of his usual cheekiness underneath. "With The-Boy-Who-Lived here, we're bound to, anyways. What's a house against a basilisk, really."
Though he almost smiled in amusement, Harry didn't say anything more. He didn't need to. The truth was, neither of them knew how they were going to get out of Grimmauld Place. They didn't know what the maze still had in store for them or what they would face next. But for now, they had each other. And in this place of torment and pain, that might just be enough to keep them from dying and help them to move forward.
The silence stretched between them, not necessarily uncomfortable, but heavy with the weight of everything they had just seen and faced. Tentative with a new string tying them together. The room, though still dark and unpleasant, no longer felt as suffocating. That something that had shifted between them hung between the two, pulling them ever so slightly together. If Harry thought about it, he'd realise that, for the first time, they didn't feel like enemies. They didn't feel like prisoners of their pasts and their rivalry; like opposite sides of the same coin, bound to never meet. They just felt like two people, standing side by side in the aftermath of a storm.
And that, for the moment, felt like hope.
The house lay still, waiting for something, and Harry instinctively knew that the worst wasn't over. Something in his belly told him that it had only just begun. But as long as they had each other; as long as they didn't give up, they could still fight.
They could still survive.
Tl;dr: As Harry and Draco navigate the maze, they stumble upon a room that initially appears ordinary (or as ordinary as Grimmauld gets), but quickly reveals its true nature as a manifestation of the house's wild magic. The room transforms into a nightmarish environment that forces them to relive their most traumatic memories, like a boggart in a 's Memory: The room morphs into a chilling forest scene that recreates Harry's worst memory: him being killed by Voldemort in the forest during the final battle. Shadows and echoes of the battle surround him, evoking the terror and hopelessness he felt as he prepared to sacrifice himself.
Draco's Memory: When he tries to help Harry, the room then shifts to recreate Draco's traumatic experience at the Manor, where he was s3xually a$$aulted by Fenrir Greyback. The space becomes an unsettling replica of Draco's private rooms, filled with the depressing atmosphere of his former safe place. Draco is overwhelmed by the sensation of being trapped in a place where he was meant to be safe but was instead vi0lated.
Both Harry and Draco are compelled to confront these memories head-on. The room's magic ensures that they relive the trauma in a way that is almost too real, making it impossible for them to escape or ignore their past experiences. The vividness of the memory projections forces them to confront their fears, guilt, and unresolved pain.
The encounter with these memories leaves both Harry and Draco emotionally exhausted. They are forced to face their darkest moments, which exacerbates their emotional state and complicates their efforts to navigate the maze. The intensity of the experience causes them to react with a mix of anger, fear, and sadness, further impacting the maze's shifting nature. Despite their distress, Harry and Draco find themselves relying on each other for support.