Chapter 8
As soon as Percy gave his distracted approval, Harry stretched his arms behind his head and smirked. "Have fun, Scorpius," he said, voice dripping with amusement. "Try not to screw anything up or Hermione will hex you."
Draco rolled his eyes. "You're just jealous because you’re stuck here doing paperwork while I get to actually do something useful," he shot back.
Harry laughed, shaking his head. "Hardly. I'd rather drown in paperwork than be trapped with lover boy over there." He tilted his head toward Ron, who was still staring at Fleur like she had personally hung the stars.
Percy, clearly at the end of his patience, slapped a heavy stack of parchment in front of Harry with a loud thud. "Less talking, more working, Potter," he snapped. "And you—" he added, glaring at Draco, "—try not to ruin anything. Hermione, keep an eye on them."
"Of course," Hermione said briskly, ignoring Ron’s dreamy expression and already making a list of possible trap designs. "Let’s go."
Fleur, perfectly composed despite the chaos, retrieved a small, polished coin from her robes. "We cannot use normal Apparition," she explained, holding it out delicately. "Gringotts has security measures. This Portkey will take us to the storage site. You must all touch it—now."
Draco placed his fingers on the cool metal, exchanging a quick glance with Harry—who gave him an exaggerated wave as if sending him off to his doom.
With a sudden jerk, the world spun away.
---
The landing was rough. Draco staggered slightly as they arrived in a dimly-lit warehouse, the faint scent of dust and old parchment lingering in the air. Towering shelves stretched around them, stacked with heavy crates marked in unfamiliar runes.
Fleur smoothed her robes effortlessly. "This is the external storage facility," she explained, her voice as calm as ever. "Items of high value are kept here before being transferred into the deeper vaults. Someone is stealing them before the transfer—bypassing even our most advanced protections."
"Any idea how they're doing it?" Hermione asked, pulling a quill and parchment from her bag.
Fleur shook her head, leading them through the narrow aisles. "Non. That is why we need help. I cannot ask anyone directly under my supervision—there are… political complications."
Draco trailed slightly behind, scanning the shelves while listening. The place was massive—too massive. If someone wanted to hide something—or someone—they could. Easily.
"So," he drawled, attempting casual conversation, "how often does Gringotts call in outsiders for help?"
"Rarely," Fleur admitted, casting a glance his way. "But your Order comes… highly recommended."
A loud clatter ahead broke his train of thought.
Ron, in his eagerness to walk beside Fleur, had tripped over a loose crate. Hermione’s quill froze mid-sentence, and she closed her eyes, visibly counting to ten under her breath.
"Really, Ron?" she muttered, shooting him a glare.
Ron, however, barely noticed—his entire focus remained on Fleur. "I—I was just making sure the area was, uh… secure," he stammered.
Draco bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing aloud. Hermione, however, looked like she was one more stumble away from hexing him.
"If you’re done with security inspections," she said sharply, "let’s focus. We’ll set up modified Identification Traps to track magical signatures. Draco, you go with Fleur and cover the north shelves. Ron and I will handle the others."
"I’m happy to assist," Fleur said with a smile, placing a gentle hand on Draco’s arm. "Shall we?"
Draco, despite himself, felt a flicker of smugness as he caught the irritated twitch of Ron’s jaw. Let Weasel sulk. It wasn’t his fault he had no self controlled around the half-Veela.
---
The scratching of quills and the rustling of parchment filled the air as Percy focused on the towering stack of documents in front of him. His quill moved swiftly—nearly furious—as he tried to drown out his own frustration.
He was an idiot. A complete fool. Letting Draco—or rather Scorpius, he corrected bitterly—go on a mission like that. When he wants even officially an order member. It was not protocol and he should have known better. He should have refused outright—should have paid attention—but instead, he'd been too distracted, too flustered, and now they were out there doing who-knew-what while he was stuck here.
Percy shook his head sharply, willing himself to focus. His duty was to ensure everything ran smoothly, not to obsess over whatever the others were doing. At least Harry Potter, usually an unrepentant distraction, seemed—
He froze mid-stroke.
Harry had been silent for far too long.
No humming under his breath. No whining about the paperwork. No sarcastic comments designed to irritate Percy into losing his temper. The sudden absence of all that usual noise was… unnerving.
Frowning, Percy glanced up. Harry wasn’t working—not that he expected him to be—but what troubled Percy more was that the boy was sitting perfectly still.
His hands rested on the table, motionless. His shoulders were tense, his head slightly tilted as though he were… listening.
Listening to something only he could hear.
"Potter," Percy snapped, voice sharp to mask his growing unease. "If you're going to sit there doing nothing, you might as well be useful and—"
Nothing. No reaction.
Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
His green eyes were distant—too distant—and there was something about his stillness that sent a cold prickle crawling up Percy’s spine.
"Potter," he tried again, his voice rising slightly, "I’m not in the mood for whatever nonsense you’re—"
Still, no reaction.
Percy’s stomach twisted with a sudden, sharp worry. Something was wrong.
He set his quill down carefully, forcing his breathing to stay steady as he leaned forward. "What’s wrong with you?" he demanded, more softly now. "What are you—?"
And then—suddenly—Harry moved.
He shot upright, his spine snapping ramrod straight. For a breathless second, Percy saw something unfamiliar flash across his face—something urgent, sharp, and dangerously focused.
"Potter?" Percy asked again, but his voice came out quieter this time—almost unsure.
Harry didn’t answer.
Didn’t even look at him.
And before Percy could say another word, Harry stood in one fluid motion and—
Disapparated.
The sharp crack of his departure echoed through the office, leaving behind an unsettling silence.
Percy sat there, shocked, staring at the empty space where Harry had just been.
What the hell had just happened?
He pushed back from his desk and frowned. Was something wrong or was Harry just being his disruptive self?
Percy let out a low groan of frustration, dragging a hand through his hair. This—whatever this was—was bound to cause trouble.
And somehow, Percy knew he was going to end up cleaning up the mess.
---
As Draco followed Fleur further into the dimly lit storage facility, he was beginning to regret having come at all. He should’ve stayed back with Harry and let Granger and Weasley handle things. At least then, he wouldn’t be subjected to Granger’s barely-contained wrath and Weasley’s lovesick stares.
Fleur walked ahead, graceful and silent, her wand casting a soft glow as she inspected the area. Draco trailed behind, keeping his distance. The heavy scent of dust and metal lingered in the air, and the faint hum of magical wards buzzed softly against his senses. It was too quiet.
His instincts prickled with unease.
He was just about to spea when the snap of magic filled the air. Before he could react, a jet of red light struck him squarely in the back.
Pain exploded across his nerves, and his limbs gave out beneath him. The ground rushed up to meet him, and he crumpled, the world tilting as his head hit the cold, hard floor. His vision blurred, and for a breathless moment, he couldn’t move.
Paralyzed, Draco’s heart slammed against his ribs in panic as his brain scrambled to catch up. Who—?
A shadow shifted in the corner of his eye, and his blood ran cold.
It was Fleur.
She stood with her wand raised, her delicate face devoid of warmth. The soft allure she’d wielded so effortlessly before was gone, replaced by a sharp, calculating smile. And as she turned back toward the others, Draco’s stomach twisted with dread.
She had planned this.
His mind raced—what was she doing? What did she want? His mouth wouldn’t move, his muscles wouldn’t respond. He could only watch as Fleur raised her wand again, this time aiming it at Hermione.
"Poor little mudblood," she murmured, and before Draco could even process the words, she fired. "Diffindo!"
The silver curse sliced through the air and struck Hermione’s side with a sickening hiss.
Hermione’s scream ripped through the stillness, raw and pained, as blood bloomed across her robes. She staggered, collapsing onto her knees, one hand clamped tightly over the wound.
"Hermione!" Ron’s voice cracked, horror and fury tangling in his throat.
The spell that had held him in thrall shattered. Whatever enchantment Fleur’s Veela magic had cast on him was gone—blown away by the sight of Hermione bleeding. And in its place was rage.
"You—" Ron’s hands trembled as he raised his wand, and his voice was low, venomous. "Stupefy!"
Fleur flicked her wand lazily, deflecting the Stunning Spell, but the smirk had slipped from her face. For the first time, she looked irritated.
"You dare?" she hissed, sending a barrage of blue flames toward him.
But Ron was already moving. With a speed that shocked even Draco, he rolled to the side, sending another curse flying. "Expelliarmus!"
She dodged it with a dancer’s grace, but Ron didn’t stop. Another curse, another hex—he was relentless.
Draco’s stomach twisted. He had expected Weasley to flail uselessly, but—Merlin—he wasn’t. He was fighting. Not clumsily, not blindly—he was holding his own against a trained curse-breaker.
Hermione, still pale and trembling, forced herself upright. Her face was tight with pain, but her wand hand was steady. "Petrificus Totalus!"
Fleur snarled as the spell grazed her shoulder, freezing the limb momentarily. She burned through the magic with a flick of her wrist, sending a slicing curse in retaliation.
Together, Hermione and Ron pressed forward—striking from two angles, backing her toward the far wall. Fleur’s beauty was still there, but it was cruel now—sharp edges without the soft allure. And for all her skill, she was losing ground.
Draco’s heart pounded. They might actually win.
And then—
A slow, drawling voice cut through the crackle of magic.
"Merlin, Fleur. Can’t even handle two brats? I thought you were supposed to be good at this."
The voice sent a chill down Draco’s spine. Smooth. Cold. Amused.
A figure emerged from the darkness—tall and lean, dressed in sleek black robes. His face was pale, angular, with sharp features and dark hair that curled faintly around his ears. He couldn’t have been much older than Draco, but there was something about him—something cold and dangerous.
Draco’s blood ran cold. He knows him.
Theodore Nott.
Percy had warned Draco about him just the other day and here he was.
Fleur stepped aside without a word, and Nott barely spared her a glance. His gaze swept over Ron and Hermione with a detached kind of interest before flicking to Draco—still frozen on the ground.
His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
"I’d have killed you already," he murmured, almost lazily. "But there’s a rather hefty price on your head, Malfoy. And I’m not one to waste a payday."
Draco’s stomach twisted. Of course. The bounty.
"What do you want?" Hermione’s voice was hoarse, but steady. She was back on her feet, blood staining her side but wand still raised.
Nott ignored her.
"Incarcerous."
Thick ropes shot from the tip of his wand. Ron tried to shield her, but Nott was faster. The ropes wrapped around Ron’s legs, yanking him off balance and sending him crashing to the floor.
"Protego!" Hermione conjured a shield in time to block his next strike, but the effort clearly cost her—she staggered back, teeth clenched against the pain.
"You really think you can win this?" Nott asked quietly. "Two against two?" His wand twitched. "Or should I make it one against two?"
Draco realized, with a sickening jolt, that Nott wasn’t in a hurry. He was playing with them.
"Leave them alone," Draco snapped, forcing the words through clenched teeth. "You want me—fight me."
Nott tilted his head, as if considering the offer. "Tempting," he admitted. "But I can’t risk you getting damaged. And besides—" His eyes flicked back to Hermione, sharp with interest. "I’m curious to see how long they’ll last."
Theodore Nott stood between Hermione and Ron—calm, composed, and completely at ease. His black robes barely stirred as he twirled his wand idly between his fingers, like this was all a game to him. And maybe, for him, it was.
Ron was still tangled in the ropes Nott had conjured, but Hermione was already moving. Her wand flashed as she cried out, "Bombarda!"
The explosion rocked the floor beneath their feet, sending a cloud of smoke and debris into the air. For a split second, Draco thought she had him—but when the dust cleared, Nott stood there without a scratch, a faint smirk on his lips.
Theo let out a low, cold laugh as he stepped over the rubble, his polished boots barely making a sound on the cracked stone floor. His wand spun lazily between his fingers as he glanced between Ron and Hermione—both disarmed and breathing hard.
"You know," he drawled, voice smooth and mocking, "I almost feel bad for you. Still speaking your spells aloud like children. Did no one ever teach you proper dueling?" He tilted his head, smirking. "Any wizard worth a damn should be casting silently by now."
His tone was light, but the edge beneath it was sharp as a knife.
Ron, still slumped against the pile of broken crates, clenched his fists. His face was flushed, and there was an ugly, defiant anger burning in his eyes. Hermione, trembling but upright, glared daggers at Theo as if sheer willpower could set him on fire.
Theo chuckled again. "Tell you what," he mused, tapping his wand against his palm, "I'll make this slightly more interesting. I'll stick to spoken spells—since you seem so attached to them."
The mockery in his voice was unbearable. Draco, still paralyzed by the Stunning Spell, wanted to scream at them to run—but his mouth wouldn’t move, and neither would his limbs. All he could do was watch as the battle continued, and the odds tilted further against them.
"Rictusempra," Theo said lazily, flicking his wand toward Ron.
The tickling charm, harmless in the hands of a schoolboy, became something else entirely under Theo’s control. Ron's body jerked violently as he fought against the curse, his laughter ragged and pained. His muscles twitched uncontrollably as he struggled to push himself upright.
"Stop it!" Hermione shouted, fury lacing her voice.
Theo arched a brow. "Oh? Feeling protective, are we?" His wand shifted without warning. "Expulso!"
Hermione barely had time to dive aside before the floor where she'd stood exploded into a shower of rubble. She hit the ground hard, her breath knocked out of her.
"Come on, Granger," Theo taunted. "You’re supposed to be the clever one—surely you can do better than dodge." His wand shifted again. "Confringo!"
The blast was aimed just beside her, forcing her to roll away again. Dust and debris clung to her hair as she scrambled to her feet. Despite her fear, her jaw was clenched in determination.
Ron managed to drag himself up, swaying slightly as he raised his empty hand like it could make a difference. "You coward," he spat. "You can’t even fight fair."
Theo’s smile sharpened. "Fair?" he echoed softly, as if tasting the word. "Fair is for fools who don’t understand how the world works."
Without another word, he raised his wand again.
"Flipendo."
The Knockback Jinx struck Ron like a hammer, throwing him against the wall with a sickening crack. He slumped to the ground, groaning weakly.
Hermione gasped, her face pale with horror. "Leave him alone!"
"Why?" Theo asked coolly. "He started this. You both did." He stalked toward her with the languid grace of a predator. "And here I thought the Dumbledore's little soldiers would be more of a challenge."
His wand twitched again. "Glacius."
Ice shot from the tip, curling around Hermione’s ankles and pinning her to the floor. She immediately pointed her trembling fingers at the frost. "Incendio!"
The ice cracked and melted under the heat, freeing her—but not quickly enough.
Theo was already casting his next spell.
"Bombarda!"
The explosion rocked the warehouse again. Hermione was flung backward, landing in a crumpled heap. She groaned softly, struggling to push herself up. But the battle was clearly taking its toll.
Theo gave a disappointed sigh. "I expected better," he murmured.
He stepped closer, so close that Hermione’s disarmed wand lay only inches from his foot. With an almost careless flick, he sent it skittering across the floor—far beyond her reach.
"I should have known better than to expect more that this, I suppose," he said softly. "Well, I’m afraid playtime’s over."
Hermione’s hands curled into fists, but there was nothing she could do as Theo raised his wand one final time. His expression was calm. Detached.
"Expelliarmus."
The spell struck Ron’s limp form, sending his wand soaring through the air. It landed beside Hermione’s, far out of reach.
The fight was over.
And Theo—calm, cruel, and completely in control—stood victorious over the two of them.
Draco’s heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of his chest. The world around him seemed to blur—everything too sharp and too loud. His breath hitched, shallow and rapid, as panic clawed at his ribs.
He was going to die.
The thought echoed over and over again, a relentless drumbeat in his skull. He was going to die, and no one would even know what happened to him.
His vision swam with red. There was a roar building in his chest—low, feral, and rising—and then—
A flash of blinding white light exploded around him.
Pain burned through his body like fire, and he screamed as something inside him cracked wide open. His bones twisted, reshaped, and the pressure under his skin burst free.
When his vision cleared, he was no longer lying helpless on the ground.
He was moving—leaping—his body low and sleek. His claws scraped against the stone floor, and he realized with a strange, detached clarity that he wasn’t human anymore.
A snow leopard. He had transformed.
His muscles bunched beneath him as he lunged at Theo, instincts taking over. He was no longer a frightened boy; he was a predator.
Theo didn’t seem afraid. If anything, he looked amused.
"Oh, look," Theo drawled, smoothly dodging Draco’s first strike. "The kitty has come out to play."
Draco snarled, swiping again—and this time, his claws grazed Theo’s throat. A thin line of blood welled up, trailing crimson against the pale skin.
Theo’s eyes narrowed as he touched his neck with his fingers, pulling them away to inspect the blood. His lips curled into an irritated scowl. "Now you've done it," he murmured coldly. "Playtime’s over, little kitty."
With a lazy flick of his wand, a wave of force slammed into Draco’s side. The snow leopard was sent flying across the warehouse, his body crashing into the wall with a sickening thud. Stars exploded behind his eyes as he crumpled to the ground, dazed.
Theo tilted his head, stepping toward him. "Your claws are a little too long for my liking," he mused. "And the bounty doesn’t say anything about you needing all your limbs… just that you have to be alive."
Before Draco could react, Theo’s wand moved in a cruel, fluid arc.
White-hot agony tore through him as his front legs—his arms—were severed at the shoulder. Draco’s vision blurred with pain, and a broken, guttural sound tore itself from his throat.
Theo gave a satisfied hum—only for his expression to flicker in surprise.
A soft, golden glow shimmered around the bloodied stumps—and before Theo’s very eyes, the limbs grew back. Fur rippled over newly restored muscle and bone, as if the injury had never happened.
"Well, well," Theo murmured, intrigued. "The bounty makes a lot more sense now. There’s more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there?" His lips curved into a sharp smile. "I wonder if my Lord would be interested in a creature like you."
Draco growled low in his throat, pain and fury coiling tight in his chest. He pushed off the ground, muscles trembling with the effort. Despite the pain burning through him, he crouched, ready to strike again.
Theo shook himself from his musings with a sigh and flicked his wand.
The curse seared across Draco’s body. His limbs spasmed uncontrollably as pain lanced through every nerve, forcing him to the ground again.
Another pulse of golden light flickered around him—weak this time—and then his snow leopard form melted away. He barely registered the change as he collapsed back into his human body, panting and trembling. His skin was slick with sweat, and every inch of him ached.
He felt sick. Weak. Helpless.
And worst of all—he knew it was over.
Magic-bound ropes lashed around him, binding his arms and legs. No matter how much he struggled, the cords only tightened further.
Theo knelt beside him, tilting his head as he examined Draco with the cold curiosity of a predator. "You put on a decent show," he admitted. "But the fun’s over now."
Draco glared at him, too exhausted to speak.
Straightening, Theo turned toward Fleur—who was still standing over the fallen forms of Ron and Hermione. They were disarmed, battered, and too drained to defend themselves.
Theo gave a lazy wave toward them. "Finish them off," he ordered. "We only need the little beast alive."
Fleur seemed hesitant before her expression changed—cold, vicious. With deliberate slowness, she raised her wand and pointed it at Hermione, who was still struggling weakly to rise.
Draco’s stomach twisted in horror.
He couldn’t move. He couldn’t stop it.
And no one was coming to save them.
A slow, deliberate clap echoed through the warehouse, cutting through the heavy silence like a knife. The sound bounced off the walls, growing louder, more mocking with each beat.
“Well, well, well…” A voice drawled from the shadows. “You sure do fight well, Theo. I’m so proud.”
The sound of footsteps followed—calm, measured, as though the chaos around him was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. And then, out of the darkness, Harry Potter stepped into the light.
Fleur’s head snapped toward him, her wand instantly raised. There was a flicker of confusion in her sharp blue eyes—after all, she had seen this boy before. Back in the Order’s headquarters. He had seemed nothing special then—just another kid. But here he was, strolling in as if he owned the place, facing off against Theodore Nott without a shred of fear.
Her fingers tightened around her wand. Whatever game he was playing, she would not let him humiliate her again.
But Theo—Theo was frozen. All the arrogance, the casual cruelty—it drained from his face in an instant. He stood as still as a statue, his face pale as death. His wide, unblinking eyes were locked on Harry as if he had just seen a ghost.
Fleur hesitated. She didn’t understand Theo’s reaction, and the unknown unnerved her. But no matter—this was just a boy. She would deal with him herself and prove to Theo she wasn’t useless.
Her wand flicked up in a precise movement.
The Blasting Curse hurtled toward Harry—but with a bored flick of his wrist, Harry swatted the curse aside mid-air, like it was nothing more than a pesky fly. The explosion shattered a crate in the corner, but he didn’t so much as flinch.
Fleur’s eyes narrowed. She fired again, faster in rapid succession.
Each spell was batted away with almost insulting ease. Harry didn’t even seem to be trying—his expression was distant, vaguely annoyed. Like her attacks were wasting his time.
“Honestly,” Harry sighed, rolling his eyes. “The henchmen you guys are recruiting these days? Really not up to standard, Theo.”
Fleur’s face burned with anger. She fired another hex, this one aimed directly for his heart.
This time, Harry didn’t deflect it.
He sidestepped the curse fluidly, his body moving with the effortless grace of a predator. When he looked back at her, the easy mockery in his expression was gone—replaced by something darker. Something dangerous.
“How rude. Can’t you see I’m having a conversation?” he asked softly. His tone was light, almost polite—but there was a razor-sharp edge beneath the words. "Maybe you should sit this one out."
Before Fleur could react, Harry’s wand twitched.
The next moment, she was on the ground, bound tightly in thick magical ropes. Her wand clattered uselessly to the floor.
“Oops,” Harry said cheerfully, turning back to Theo as though nothing had happened. “Now, where were we?”
Theo hadn’t moved. Draco, still trembling from the pain and exhaustion of his transformation, watched the scene in disbelief. His mind struggled to reconcile what he was seeing.
The strangest thing wasn’t how easily Harry had defeated Fleur. It was the way Theodore Nott was looking at him—like Harry was something far more terrifying than any opponent he had faced before.
Harry tilted his head, flashing a charming, easy grin. “Did you miss me?”
Theo’s breath hitched. For a split second, his face softened—something raw flashing behind his eyes. His hand twitched at his side, as though he wanted to reach for Harry—but he clenched his fist instead, forcing himself to stay still.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet—strained. “So… it’s true then.” He let out a shaky breath. “I was so sure it was a false lead. So sure that I didn’t even bother to check. Not like the hundreds of others—leads that led to nothing.” He let out a bitter, broken laugh. “I laughed when I heard it. There was no way—no way—you would’ve gone to that old fool.”
Then, his voice hardened—his warmth vanishing as his face twisted with something colder. "And yet… here you are."
For just a moment, something flickered across Harry’s face—something that might have been regret. But it was gone in a flash, replaced by an easy, casual air as he turned his gaze to Ron, Hermione, and Draco—still tied and helpless.
“I can’t let you hurt them, Theo,” Harry said quietly. There was no mockery in his tone now. Just a simple, almost apologetic sincerity.
From the ground, Fleur spat out something angry and rapid in French. She struggled against the magical ropes, her fury palpable. When she lifted her head again, her eyes were blazing. "You’re just a boy," she hissed. "You cannot stand against our Lord. You know nothing of his power—"
A sound interrupted her—a sudden, sharp bark of laughter. Theo was laughing—low and wild, the sound bubbling up from deep inside his chest. It wasn’t amusement, though. Not really.
“Oh, Fleur,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye, his voice laced with something almost hysterical. “He knows better than you could possibly imagine.”
His smile faded into something colder. Harsher. “After all…” Theo’s eyes locked onto Harry’s, gleaming with a strange mix of resentment and longing. “He was our Lord’s right-hand man. For years. Until he left us—like the traitor he is.”