Draco’s Reprieve

July 14, 1993, 6:00 PM, Malfoy Manor

Draco Malfoy

Draco stood in the center of Malfoy Manor’s dueling room, his wand gripped tightly as a sharp, prickling itch erupted across the back of his neck. He scratched at it furiously, his focus splintering just as Narcissa’s latest jinx struck true.

The harmless spell— a favorite of hers for these sessions— had caught him off guard, its invisible tendrils burrowing into his skin and setting his nerves alight with irritation.

He muttered a curse under his breath. They were practicing his blocking ability, and so far, he was failing miserably.

Narcissa stood across from him, her slender frame poised with an effortless grace that made Draco’s stomach twist. She flicked her wand, sending six quick jinxes his way in a flurry of pale light. Draco reacted on instinct, his boots scraping the polished oak floor as he twisted to the side.

The first two jinxes sailed past, singeing the air where he’d been, but the third clipped his shoulder, amplifying the itch until he nearly dropped his wand to claw at it.

“Protego!” He barked, thrusting his wand forward. A shimmering shield flared to life, weak and flickering, just in time to catch the fourth and fifth spell. It held for a few more heartbeats before dissolving, the absorbed light winking out like a snuffed candle.

The fifth jinx came low, and Draco leapt back, his movements sharp but clumsy, his breath hitching as he landed awkwardly on his heel. The sixth was already streaking toward him, a faint shimmer in the gloom, and he slashed his wand through the air in a desperate arc.

“Diffindo!” The spell grazed the jinx, sending it spiraling into a nearby bust of some long-dead Malfoy, which toppled with a satisfying crash. Draco smirked despite himself, but the itch surged again, and he swiped at his neck with his free hand, his wand arm trembling from the effort.

Narcissa lowered her wand slightly, her dark eyes glinting with amusement. She hadn’t broken a sweat, her black robes pristine, her wand twirling idly between her fingers as if this were a casual stroll rather than a duel.

“Focus, Draco.” She said, her voice smooth and teasing. “Or you’ll be scratching yourself raw before you block anything worthwhile.”

Her smirk widened, and Draco’s cheeks burned. He hated how relaxed she looked— how she made it seem so easy while he floundered like a complete novice. He thought he’d been becoming good at magic, but it seemed he had much to learn.

He straightened, brushing a lock of platinum hair from his eyes, and tightened his grip on his wand. The portraits along the walls whispered to each other, their painted lips curling as they watched him struggle. The itch gnawed at him, a constant distraction, but he forced it down, his jaw clenching. Narcissa raised her wand again, and Draco braced himself, his heart pounding against his ribs. He’d blocked two out of six— pathetic by any measure, let alone a Malfoy’s. His mother’s spells were precise, relentless, and he knew she wasn’t even trying yet. That thought stung worse than the jinx.

He ducked his head slightly, exhaling through gritted teeth, and steadied his wand. She could smirk all she liked; he’d prove he wasn’t some helpless child.

Draco Malfoy barely had time to catch his breath before Narcissa’s wand flicked again, a fresh volley of jinxes slicing through the air of Malfoy Manor’s dueling room. The silver streak from her last spell still hung in his vision as he weaved to the side, his boots scuffing the polished floor. His neck itched fiercely, the sensation spreading down his collarbone, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it. Another jinx buzzed past his ear, close enough that he felt the heat, and he ducked low, his knees protesting as he hit the ground harder than intended.

“Protego!” He snapped, thrusting his wand up. The shield flared— stronger this time, a solid shimmer of light— but it wavered under the impact of her spell, cracking like thin ice before shattering. One block, even worse now.

He rolled to his feet, wand slashing as he deflected the next jinx with a sharp twist of his wrist. “Depulso!”

The spell ricocheted into the ceiling, sending a shower of dust from the chandelier. Draco’s chest heaved, sweat stinging his eyes, and his arm trembled from the strain of forty minutes of relentless casting. Narcissa stood unfazed, her black robes swaying slightly as she paced a slow circle around him. Her wand moved like an extension of her hand, fluid and precise, each jinx a testament to her skill. She wasn’t even breathing hard, and that fact gnawed at Draco more than the itch now creeping up his jaw.

“Impedimenta!” She called, her voice calm, and Draco dove aside, the spell grazing his sleeve and slowing his arm for a heartbeat before he shook it off. He retaliated with a weak “Stupefy!”, more out of frustration than strategy, and Narcissa batted it away with a casual flick, her lips twitching into a faint smile.

The portraits lining the walls chuckled softly, their painted eyes glinting with mockery, and Draco’s ears burned. He lunged forward, dodging another jinx that singed the hem of his robes, and conjured a final Shield Charm.

It held— just— against her last spell, the impact jarring his wrist as he stumbled back, panting.

“Enough.” Narcissa said, lowering her wand with a graceful dip. Her voice carried a firm warmth, cutting through the haze of Draco’s exertion. He straightened, sweat beading on his brow, and wiped his face with his sleeve.

“I can keep going.” He protested, his tone sharp despite the ache in his legs and the itch still prickling his skin. His chest rose and fell unevenly, but he lifted his chin, defiance masking his fatigue.

Narcissa’s smile softened, a rare glimmer of pride breaking through her usual reserve.

“I know you can.” She said, stepping closer, her wand twirling idly between her fingers. “You’ve lasted more than forty minutes, Draco— more than wizards twice your age could manage. That initiative is something to be proud of.”

Her words hung in the air, warm and unexpected, and Draco felt a flicker of satisfaction bloom in his chest. For a moment, he stood taller, the ache in his muscles almost forgotten.

But the itch flared again, sharp and insistent, and his hand twitched toward his neck before he stopped himself. His legs throbbed, his wand arm sagged, and the pride withered as quickly as it had come. He wasn’t strong enough— not yet. Narcissa turned to leave, her heels clicking softly against the floor, and called over her shoulder.

“Rest now. You’ve earned it.” The door closed behind her, leaving Draco alone in the dimly lit room, the portraits falling silent. He flexed his fingers around his wand, jaw tight, her praise echoing in his mind. It wasn’t enough— not when he could still feel every weakness screaming through his body. He’d have to do better.

Draco lingered in the dueling room, the silence settling like dust after Narcissa’s departure. The heavy oak door had clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone with the flickering torchlight and the watchful eyes of the portraits lining the walls.

His neck still itched faintly, a stubborn remnant of her jinx that prickled beneath his collar, but he resisted the urge to scratch. His muscles ached— his legs stiff from dodging, his wand arm sore from the strain of conjuring shields that had barely held. He shifted his weight, wincing as his knees creaked, and ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, the platinum strands sticking to his fingers.

He leaned against the wall, the cool stone grounding him as his breathing slowed. Forty minutes of dueling, and Narcissa’s praise still echoed in his ears: more than wizards twice your age could manage.

The words had sparked a flicker of pride, a rare warmth that had briefly lifted his chin. He’d endured her relentless jinxes, her effortless precision, and she’d seen something worth commending.

Draco pushed off the wall, his boots scuffing the polished floor as he paced. His training regimen flashed through his mind— hours of spellwork, drills with conjured targets. It had been grueling once, leaving him sprawled on his bed, chest heaving, muscles screaming. He’d thought it was enough to make him stronger, to sharpen him into the wizard a Malfoy should be. But now? He’d grown used to it, the ache dulled by routine, the exhaustion no longer a badge of honor but a sign he’d plateaued. The realization twisted in his gut like a knife. He’d adapted, yes, but he hadn’t improved— not enough to match Narcissa’s ease, not enough to silence the whispers of the portraits or the doubts in his own head.

His hand tightened around his wand, the smooth hawthorn digging into his palm. He needed to be stronger— not just in magic, but in body. The soreness in his legs, the tremble in his arm— they were proof he’d hit a wall, and he hated it. He stopped pacing, staring at the shattered bust he’d knocked over during the duel, its marble face frozen in a sneer. He wasn’t that fragile— not yet— but he could feel the cracks forming, the limits he hadn’t pushed past. If he stayed like this, comfortable in his routine, he’d never be more than the boy who blocked two out of six.

Draco’s jaw clenched, his resolve hardening like steel. He turned on his heel and strode toward the door, his steps stiff but deliberate. The portraits watched in silence, their painted smirks fading as if they sensed the shift in him. He climbed the stairs to his room, each step a quiet battle against the ache in his thighs, and pushed the door open.

The familiar opulence greeted him— dark velvet curtains, a four-poster bed, a desk littered with quills— but he ignored it, crossing to the window. Sunlight spilled across the grounds as he stared out, his mind already racing.

More duels, he decided— longer, harder, against moving targets. He’d begin to run, push his lungs until they burned, train until his wand felt like an extension of his bones. The itch was fading now, a faint tingle he could finally ignore, and he flexed his fingers, feeling the soreness as a challenge rather than a burden.

He’d transform it— turn every weakness into strength, every ache into power. Draco stepped back from the window, his reflection in the glass sharp and determined. He wouldn’t settle for good enough— not anymore.

He paced the length of his room in Malfoy Manor, his boots thudding softly against the thick carpet. He hadn’t had the time to sit down and figure this out— or so he told himself. The lie gnawed at him, sharp and insistent, because the truth was he’d had plenty of moments, snatched between the endless comings and goings of the Death Eaters who’d turned his home into their playground.

He’d just chosen to spend them hiding, slipping into shadows, keeping his head down while they were here. The thought of facing it all— of untangling the mess in his mind— felt like staring into an abyss he wasn’t ready to cross.

The manor had been a warren of noise and menace for weeks, maybe months; he’d lost count of how many times those cloaked figures had swept through. Their heavy boots had echoed down the marble corridors, their coarse laughter and barked orders shattering the stillness that once defined his family’s sanctuary. Draco had caught glimpses of them from behind cracked doors or through the banisters— gaunt faces, wands drawn, eyes glinting with a hunger he didn’t want to understand. He’d pressed himself against walls, held his breath, anything to stay beneath their notice. It had worked, mostly, and he counted his lucky stars for that.

The one he’d avoided most was his aunt Bellatrix.

Vicious, unpredictable, and utterly mad, she’d stormed through the manor like a tempest, her wild black hair a tangled halo, her cackle bouncing off the walls.

He stopped pacing, his hands flexing at his sides as he crossed to the window. The heavy velvet curtains framed a view of the grounds, with well manicured lawns, bushes, and lush trees. The silence in his room was a stark contrast to the chaos that had ruled the manor until recently, but it didn’t feel like peace. It felt like a held breath, a pause before the next storm.

Draco leaned against the sill, his pale reflection staring back from the glass, and his mind drifted to her again— Bellatrix, shrieking orders at some trembling Death Eater, her wand slashing the air like a blade. He’d heard that laugh in the halls one night, sharp and jagged, and it had lodged in his chest like a splinter.

Why did Narcissa and Lucius keep her close? Loyalty to blood made sense, but this? He couldn’t reconcile his mother’s cool elegance or his father’s calculated pride with Bellatrix’s insanity. Family was strength, a shield, but she was a crack in it— wild enough to shatter everything they’d built. Draco’s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to ask, to demand answers, but the words stuck in his throat, buried under the weight of everything he hadn’t faced. The meetings, the plans, the things he’d overheard— he’d shoved them all down, locked them away, and now they festered.

He turned from the window, the memory of her laughter ringing in his ears, a ghost of sound that wouldn’t fade. The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in, and he fought the urge to bolt— to run from it all.

And so he fled his own room, wandering the halls until he found himself before the fireplace in the family library. He stood by it, the dying embers casting a faint glow across his pale features. The air was thick with the scent of cedar and ash, the silence broken only by the occasional pop of the logs.

He hadn’t heard Narcissa enter— her steps were too soft, too measured— but he felt the shift in the room, a subtle tightening of the atmosphere. He glanced up from the flames, catching the faint rustle of her silk robes as she crossed the threshold, her blonde hair catching the firelight like spun gold. Her eyes, sharp and searching, settled on him, and Draco realized too late that a frown had creased his brow.

“Draco… You’ve not freshened up?” She said, her voice low but laced with concern.

Draco didn’t answer immediately, though a frown marred his face. He’d intended upon it at the start, but then eventually did not. “I was distracted. Apologies, Mother.”

“It is fine, son. Though… You’ve been quiet lately.” She stepped closer, her hands clasped before her, and the lines of worry on her face deepened as she studied him. “What you saw at that meeting a few weeks ago—”

She hesitated, as if weighing her words, then pressed on. “If something’s troubling you, you can tell me.”

Draco’s stomach twisted, the memory of that night flashing unbidden once again. He shook his head quickly, forcing his shoulders back and his expression into something harder, more composed.

“I’m fine, Mother.” He said, his voice steady despite the lie that burned on his tongue. He met her gaze, willing his eyes to stay dry, his jaw to stay firm. “Really. There’s nothing to worry about.”

He wasn’t fine. The nightmares had clawed their way into his sleep every night since— dark corridors, blood-streaked tables, his aunt’s manic grin looming over him like a specter. He’d wake gasping, his sheets tangled, his heart hammering so loud he feared it would wake the house. But he wouldn’t tell her that. He wouldn’t add his own weakness to his mother’s load.

She tilted her head, her gaze piercing through him like a blade through silk. For a moment, he thought she’d press harder, peel back the mask he’d slapped on so hastily. His chest tightened, his fingers curling against the mantel as he braced for it. But then her expression softened, a flicker of resignation crossing her features.

“If you’re sure.” She said, though her tone suggested she wasn’t convinced. She stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on his arm, her touch cool through his sleeve. “You’d tell me if it were otherwise, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.” He lied again, the words tasting bitter. He forced a small nod, his lips twitching into what he hoped was a reassuring smile. It felt brittle, like it might crack if she looked too long, but he held it.

He couldn’t let her see the fractures— the fear that gnawed at him, the dread that they were all teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t name. She’d carried enough for him, for Lucius, for the Malfoy name. This, at least, he could keep to himself.

Narcissa lingered a moment longer, her hand tightening briefly on his arm before she withdrew.

“At least it’s quiet now.” Narcissa said, stepping back into the doorway. She’d paused there, her hands clasped tightly before her, her posture rigid despite the casual tone. “There’s no one else occupying our home any longer. The Dark Lord has deigned to use another’s house instead.”

She tilted her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips, though it didn’t reach her eyes.

Draco’s gaze snapped to her, a rush of relief washing over him like cool water. The manor was theirs again— no more Death Eaters lurking in the corridors, no more boots scuffing the marble, no more of Bellatrix’s wild laughter echoing through the walls.

He could almost feel the space breathing, the oppressive shadow of their presence lifting. But Narcissa’s words trailed off, her lips pressing into a thin line as she withheld the name of whoever now bore that burden. She didn’t need to say it; the omission hung between them, heavy and deliberate, and Draco’s relief faltered.

He nodded faintly, his fingers tightening against his sleeve.

“That’s… good.” He managed, his voice quieter than he’d intended. The fire popped, sending a spark skittering across the hearth, and he latched onto the thought of an empty house— picturing the halls silent, the portraits no longer whispering about cloaked intruders. It should have been a comfort, a reprieve after weeks of tension, but something gnawed at him. The Dark Lord didn’t abandon one pawn without claiming another, and the shift felt less like freedom and more like a prelude to something worse.

The question had been festering in his chest for days, a hot coal he couldn’t smother: did his mother truly want this— supporting the Dark Lord, tying their lives to his shadow? He’d avoided it, pushed it down with every ounce of will he had, but it burned brighter now, demanding release.

In the intermittent quiet, he paced the length of the room, his boots muffled by the threadbare rug. The portraits lining the walls watched him, their painted eyes glinting in the dim firelight, and he felt their judgment— or perhaps it was his own.

His heart thudded against his ribs, a frantic rhythm he couldn’t quiet. What if she grew angry? What if she lied? Worse, what if she told him a truth he couldn’t bear?

His throat tightened, the words he’d practiced lodging there like stones. He opened his mouth, closed it, his hands clenching at his sides as panic clawed up his spine. His nails dug into his palms, and he forced himself to meet her eyes, pale blue and piercing, mirrors of his own. The air thickened, and he swallowed hard, his voice emerging low and unsteady.

“Mother.” He said, each word a battle. “Is this what you want? Supporting… him?”

He locked eyes with her, searching her face for an answer before she spoke, and for a fleeting moment, he saw it— terror, stark and unguarded, breaking through her usual composure. Her lips parted, a sharp intake of breath, and her hand twitched as if to reach for him before she caught herself.

Then the expression shifted, hardening into something colder, sadder, a veil of resignation settling over her features. The fire crackled behind him, the only sound in the room, and Draco braced himself, his stomach twisting as he waited for her to speak. He’d crossed a line— he knew it— and whatever came next, he couldn’t unask it now.

She turned away for a moment, her profile sharp against the flickering firelight, and Draco’s chest tightened, the air between them thick with the weight of what he’d asked. Her hand hovered near her throat, then dropped as she steadied herself, her composure returning like a mask slipping into place. When she faced him again, her eyes glistened, but her voice was firm, though it trembled at the edges.

“No, Draco.” She said quietly. “It isn’t what I want.”

Draco felt a jolt— relief, dread, he couldn’t tell which— as she continued. “But we have no choice in the matter.”

Her gaze drifted past him, settling on the shadowed shelves, and she took a breath, as if steeling herself to unravel a knot she’d long kept tied.

“Our family— the Blacks— have been bound to him for many years. Bellatrix, cousin Regulus, and our parents, with their devotion— we all pledged ourselves to the Dark Lord.” Her voice dropped, a whisper laced with resignation. “I was raised in it, shaped by it, and even when I wanted to turn away, the roots were too deep. Your father, too, has tied us to this. Lucius betrayed him once, after his fall, by not searching for him when others did. He’s no longer in the Dark Lord’s good graces, and we’re paying for it.”

Draco’s stomach sank, a cold weight settling there as her words painted their cage. He’d known pieces of this, but hearing it from her, so stark and final, made it real. Narcissa’s tone hardened, her fear sharpening into a warning.

“Another betrayal, Draco, wouldn’t be forgiven so easily. We’re trapped— by blood, by mistakes, by what we can’t undo.” Her voice fell to a near-whisper, as if the walls might carry her confession to unseen ears, and Draco’s dislike for their situation curdled into something sharper, a bitter edge he couldn’t swallow.

He wanted to argue, to demand a way out, but the look in her eyes— haunted, resigned— silenced him. Her hand trembled slightly as she smoothed her robes, a nervous tic she couldn’t hide, and she straightened, forcing a brittle brightness into her tone as she gave her young man a hug.

“Let us not speak of this again, Draco.” She whispered, her breath warm against his skin. “Even here. We may be watched.”

Her eyes darted to the shadowed corners as if the Dark Lord’s spies lurked in the very walls. Draco nodded, his throat tight, understanding the danger in her warning. Her hand lingered on his cheek for a heartbeat, then fell away as she straightened, her composure snapping back into place.

With a final glance— pleading, protective— she turned and left, her robes swishing softly as the door closed behind her with a muted thud. Draco stood alone, the imprint of her kiss lingering like a brand. He watched the empty doorway, his mother’s silhouette burned into his mind, and felt the library shift around him— not oppressive now, but charged, a space where thoughts could take shape.

Her fear had been palpable, her warning a shackle, and yet it sparked something in him— a flicker of rebellion, a refusal to accept this as their fate.

He sank into a high-backed chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and stared into the flames. The Dark Lord’s yoke was suffocating— his mother’s resignation, his father’s disgrace, the madness of Bellatrix tying them to a cause neither of them wanted. Trapped, she’d said, but Draco’s mind churned, rejecting the finality of it.

What if they weren’t? What if there was a way out— not just for him, but for all of them, his family intact, free of this nightmare? The idea took root, tentative but growing, a thread of hope weaving through the dread that had anchored him.

His fingers drummed against the armrest, a restless rhythm as he pictured it— slipping from the Dark Lord’s grasp, vanishing into a life where Narcissa didn’t flinch at shadows, where Lucius didn’t bow to a master he’d betrayed. It was mad, impossible even, but the thought gripped him, fueled by the memory of his mother’s trembling hand, her whispered caution. He didn’t know how— not yet— but the spark was there, a plan forming in the haze of his exhaustion.

The fire dwindled, its glow fading to embers, and Draco leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on the dying light. The portraits watched in silence, their painted sneers irrelevant now— he wasn’t scheming for their approval, but for survival, for freedom. His heartbeat steadied, each thud a promise to himself, to Narcissa, even to Lucius. Escaping the Dark Lord’s yoke wasn’t just a dream; it was a necessity, and he’d make it real.

The library’s stillness became a canvas, his mind racing with possibilities— where to go, how to hide, what to sacrifice.

He wouldn’t speak of it, not yet, not here, but the resolve hardened within him, a quiet vow as the last flame flickered out.

oooo

Same time, Egypt

Bill Weasley

Bill stood amid the chaos of the desert dig site, his long hair tied back in a messy knot, strands clinging to his sweat-streaked face as the sun dipped below the dunes. The air was dry and gritty, swirling sand around the scattered tools and tattered canvas tents that marked their camp.

He gripped his wand loosely, its tip still warm from the last curse he’d unraveled, and surveyed the aftermath with a weary eye. The tomb they’d cracked open had been a hellscape— narrow tunnels that reeked of dust and decay, walls rigged with traps that snapped shut like jaws. Going in had been a gamble, and they’d paid for it dearly.

His crew sprawled around him, some slumped against crates, others nursing wounds under makeshift bandages. The groans of the injured cut through the stillness, a grim reminder of how close they’d come to losing more than just time.

Bill’s shoulders ached from hours of spellwork, his hands blistered from prying apart enchanted stone, but there’d been a thrill in it too— unraveling ancient magic, peeling back centuries. That thrill had soured now, replaced by a gnawing dread as he tallied the cost. Too many had stumbled out bloodied or limping, their shouts still echoing in his ears from when the tomb had fought back.

His gaze drifted to the tomb’s entrance, a dark maw carved into the rock, its jagged edges catching the fading light. They’d finished the work— mapped it, stripped its secrets bare— but it felt less like victory and more like survival.

Isolde crossed his mind then, a witch on his team who’d been a rock through it all. She had his mother’s fiery temper, quick to snap when the Goblins grumbled, and a mind sharp as a blade, always three steps ahead with lore.

Lovely, by all accounts, with dark hair and a laugh that could cut through tension— until today. She’d been too slow dodging a cursed dart, her usual grace faltering, and now she was paying for it somewhere in the camp, her fate tugging at him.

Bill wiped his brow with the back of his hand, dust smearing across his freckled skin, and let out a slow breath. The dig had been his charge, his call, and every injury felt personal. He’d pushed them hard— maybe too hard— and the weight of that settled in his chest like stone. His boots crunched on the sand as he turned toward the tents, resolve hardening despite the ache in his bones. He needed to check on them, make sure they were holding up, especially Isolde.

The tomb was done, its curses broken, but the real work was keeping his crew whole. With a final glance at that shadowed entrance, he started walking, the desert stretching endless around him, pride and dread warring in his gut.

He trudged across the dig site camp, the sand crunching under his boots as he approached the makeshift awning where Isolde lay. The canvas flapped in the dry wind, casting patchy shade over her pale form, her dark hair splayed across a folded cloak.

She was propped against a crate, one leg bandaged where a cursed dart had bitten into her flesh, her face slick with sweat despite the cooling evening. Bill knelt beside her, his shadow falling over her as he set his wand down and tugged a canteen from his belt.

“Here.” He said, offering the water, his voice gentle but edged with insistence. “You need to drink, Isolde.”

He adjusted the blanket draped over her shoulders, his fingers brushing her clammy skin as he checked the bandage— red seeping through, the curse still gnawing at her despite their counterspells. Her negligence had cost her, a rare misstep for someone who knew curses like he knew breathing, and it gnawed at him to see her like this— weakened, vulnerable, when she’d been their backbone.

Her eyes fluttered open, sharp and hazel, and fixed on him with a glare that could’ve melted stone.

“Piss off, Weasley.” She rasped, her voice hoarse but venomous. “Before I shove a broomstick up your arse and fly you out of here myself.”

She swatted at his hand, the motion feeble but defiant, a spark of her usual fire flaring through the pain. Bill rocked back on his heels, a wry grin tugging at his lips despite the worry knotting his gut. That temper meant she was still fighting, and he’d take her barbs over silence any day.

“Charming as ever.” He muttered, setting the canteen beside her anyway. He studied her leg, the dark veins creeping upward from the wound, and his grin faded. They’d slowed the curse, but it wasn’t enough— she needed a proper healer, not field patches in a desert camp. He reached to adjust the blanket again, ignoring her scowl, and said. “You’re not dying on my watch, so save your energy for something useful— like not hexing me.”

Her huff was weak, but her glare held, and he felt a flicker of admiration for her stubbornness, even now.

Bill sat back, hands resting on his knees, his freckled face creased with concern as he scanned her for any worsening signs. The camp hummed quietly around them— murmurs of the crew, the clink of gear— but his focus stayed on her, on keeping her steady.

Then he heard it: footsteps, too many and too deliberate, cutting through the dusk. He glanced over his shoulder, his hand twitching toward his wand.

He squinted into the dusk, the camp’s flickering lanterns casting long shadows as a group of Arab wizards strode in, their robes billowing like storm clouds. Their faces were stern, etched with authority, and they waved official-looking parchments, the parchment edges glinting gold in the dim light. Bill’s hand tightened on his wand as their leader— a tall man with a hawkish nose— barked in accented English. “This site is ours now. Vacate the premises immediately.”

The camp stilled, the crew’s murmurs dying as all eyes turned to the intruders. Bill’s jaw clenched, irritation flaring at the audacity, but before he could stand, Tarok stepped forward. The Goblin overseer, wiry and sharp-eyed, planted himself between the wizards and the team, his clawed hands on his hips.

“You’ve no right.” Tarok snarled, his voice gravelly, jabbing a finger at the leader. “This is a Gringotts operation— our dig, our claim.”

His displeasure radiated, his thin frame taut with defiance, and Bill felt a flicker of respect for the Goblin’s nerve.

The Arab wizards didn’t flinch. The leader thrust the parchment forward, its wax seal gleaming, and snapped.

“This says otherwise. Your bank ceded control to the governing body— us.” His companions fanned out, wands drawn but low, their eyes scanning the tents and crates with possessive intent. Bill rose slowly, dust falling from his trousers, his temper simmering as he watched them strut like they owned the sand beneath his boots. Isolde shifted behind him, muttering a curse under her breath, and he shot her a quick glance— her glare matched his own growing heat.

Tarok snatched the parchment, his yellowed nails scraping the edges as he scanned it, his scowl deepening with every line. The Arab wizards pressed their case, their voices rising— commands to pack up, to leave the finds, to scatter like scolded children.

Bill’s wand twitched in his grip, his freckled knuckles whitening as he pictured hexing that smug leader into next week. They’d bled for this dig— literally, with Isolde’s leg a testament— and now these strangers waltzed in with paper and arrogance? It was bollocks, and he wasn’t having it.

He took a step forward, sand crunching, his broad shoulders squared as he prepared to challenge them.

“You can’t just— ” He started, voice low and dangerous, but Tarok’s head whipped around, his sharp eyes locking onto Bill’s. The Goblin’s glare was a blade, cutting off Bill’s words mid-breath, a silent order hanging in the air: stand down. Bill’s chest heaved, his wand still poised, but he held his ground, fury coiling tight.

The wizards smirked, oblivious or uncaring, and the tension crackled like a storm brewing over the dunes, Tarok’s reluctant scrutiny of the parchment the only thing keeping it from breaking.

Bill Weasley stood poised at the edge of the dig site camp, his wand half-drawn, the Arab wizards’ smug voices grating against his nerves as they reiterated their claim. The desert wind tugged at his hair, sand stinging his skin, but his focus stayed on Tarok, the Goblin overseer, who clutched the parchment with clawed fingers. Tarok’s sharp eyes flicked over the text, tracing the Gringotts seal, and his scowl deepened, lips curling back to reveal pointed teeth.

“It’s true.” He muttered, voice tight with disgust. “The bank’s handed it over— site’s theirs now, by order of the local governors.”

The Arab wizards straightened, their leader’s smirk widening as he gestured to the camp.

“You heard him. Clear out— leave the finds.” He said, his tone dripping with satisfaction. His companions moved toward the crates, hands already reaching for the artifacts Bill’s team had risked their lives to unearth. Bill’s face flushed, the freckles stark against his reddening skin, and his wand slid fully into his palm.

They’d fought traps, dodged curses— Isolde was half-dead under that awning because of this dig— and now these bastards thought they could swagger in and take it? Not a chance.

He stepped forward, boots grinding into the sand, his voice a growl. “You’re not touching a damn thing we— ” The words cut off as Tarok’s arm shot out, his glare pinning Bill like a spear.

“Stop.” The Goblin snapped, his voice a whip-crack that froze Bill mid-stride. Tarok’s yellow eyes bored into him, a warning laced with resignation, and Bill’s chest heaved, his breath ragged with the effort of holding back. His wand trembled in his grip, itching to fly, but Tarok’s authority— the chain of command he’d signed onto— kept it leashed, barely.

The Arab wizards chuckled, low and mocking, as they rifled through a crate, pulling out a golden amulet Bill had pried from a warded vault himself. His crew muttered behind him— angry, helpless— and Isolde’s hoarse curse floated from the awning, mirroring his own rage. Tarok folded the parchment with a sharp crease, his thin frame rigid as he turned to the wizards.

“You’ve got your proof.” He said, bitterness seeping through. “Don’t push it.”

The leader waved a dismissive hand, unperturbed, and Bill’s knuckles whitened, his loyalty to his team screaming against the Goblin’s pragmatism.

Tarok glanced back at Bill, his expression softening— just a flicker— before hardening again.

“We can’t fight this.” He murmured, low enough that only Bill heard. “Not here, not now.”

Bill’s jaw tightened, his wand lowering but not holstered, the fury coiling tighter in his gut. He’d trusted Tarok, followed his lead through that hellhole of a tomb, and now they were surrendering? It stung, sharp and personal, but he held his tongue, his eyes burning into the wizards’ backs as they claimed what wasn’t theirs. The battle wasn’t over— not yet— not while he still had breath.

Through all this, the Arab wizards swarmed the dig site camp, their hands snatching up everything his team had fought for. Golden artifacts— scarabs, amulets, a rune-carved chalice— clattered into crates with no care, scrolls crumpled as they were shoved aside. The crew’s hard-won haul, paid for in blood and sweat, vanished under the wizards’ greedy grasp, and the air buzzed with their smug commands. Tarok herded the team back, his sharp voice cutting through their grumbles, and Bill’s chest burned, the injustice of it searing hotter with every stolen piece.

“Move out!” The leader barked, his robe swirling as he waved them off. “You’re done here— leave the country, now.”

The crew shuffled, gathering packs, their faces tight with anger and defeat, but Bill planted his feet, sand grinding under his boots. He glanced at Isolde— still pale under the awning, her leg a mess— and the others nursing cuts and burns. They couldn’t just walk away, not like this.

He stepped forward, voice rising over the wind.

“We’ve got injured here!” He pointed to Isolde, then the others scattered around the camp, his tone sharp and unyielding. “They need medical attention— proper care, not a march across the desert. You can’t kick us out without that.”

The Arab wizards finally paused, their leader’s eyes narrowing, a flicker of displeasure crossing his hawkish face. A tense murmur passed between them in their own tongue, wands shifting in their hands, and Bill braced himself, ready for a fight if it came to it.

The leader’s lip curled, his gaze darting to Isolde— sweating, cursing softly— and the bandaged crew.

“You test our patience.” He said, his accent thick with irritation, but after a beat, he jerked his head. “Fine. Tend your wounded— then go.”

The concession was grudging, spat out like a bitter pill, and his companions scowled, clearly unhappy with the delay. Bill exhaled, a tight nod his only thanks, his focus already shifting to his team. The wizards turned back to the tomb, their silhouettes swallowed by its dark mouth, and Bill watched them go, his frown deepening, a storm of frustration brewing behind his eyes.

He moved quickly, barking orders to gather the injured, his hands steady despite the anger simmering beneath.

“Get her up.” He said to a crewmate near Isolde, then checked the others— binding a sling tighter, passing water— his care rough but sure. The camp emptied around him, tents sagging as the gear was packed, and he stood tall, hands on hips, counting heads. They’d lost the site, the haul, but he’d be damned if he lost anyone else.

The Arab wizards had vanished into the tomb, their crates of pilfered artifacts out of sight, and the camp lay in ruins— tents sagging, tools scattered. Bill’s jaw tightened as he turned to Tarok, the Goblin overseer hovering nearby, his sharp eyes glinting in the fading light.

“What about payment?” Bill asked, his voice clipped, arms crossing over his chest. “We risked our necks for those finds— Gringotts owes us something.”

Tarok’s thin lips curled, a dry snort escaping as he adjusted the pouch at his belt.

“Payment?” He echoed, his tone edged with bitter amusement. “There’s none, Weasley. The Arabs took it all— site’s theirs now, per the bank’s deal. No haul, no gold.”

He paused, then added. “I’ll fund your trip home, though— contract says I have to. Consider it generous.”

His yellowed claws tapped the parchment he’d tucked away, and Bill’s shoulders slumped, a curse bitten back behind his teeth. Weeks of work, Isolde’s blood, all for nothing but a ticket out? It stung, deep and raw.

Then Bill’s hand brushed his belt, the faint weight of his enchanted pocket tugging at his awareness, and a slow, sly grin crept across his face. He patted the leather, a subtle gesture, and let the silence stretch, his freckled fingers lingering there.

Tarok’s gaze flicked to the motion, his sharp mind catching the hint, and his scowl softened into something like recognition. Bill didn’t need to say it— the real treasures, the ones he’d palmed from the tomb’s deepest vault, were tucked away, safe from prying hands. Gold coins, a jeweled dagger, ancient relics pulsing with magic— they weren’t in those crates, and they never would be.

The Goblin’s eyes glinted, a sharp-toothed smile breaking through.

“Conniving wizards.” He muttered, his voice low and approving, a rare crack in his gruff facade. “Always a trick up your sleeve.”

Bill let out a deep, rolling laugh, the sound bouncing off the desert dunes as Tarok’s dry quip about conniving wizards hung in the air. The Goblin’s sharp-toothed grin mirrored his own, a rare moment of camaraderie cutting through the day’s bitterness.

The crew milled nearby, their faces weary but alive. Isolde sat propped against a crate, her bandaged leg stretched out, her glare as fierce as ever as she swatted at a crewmate fussing over her.

“I’m not dead yet.” She snapped, and Bill chuckled again, shaking his head. She was stable— pale, sweaty, but fighting— and the others were patched up, slings and wraps marking their survival. He moved among them, his steps sure despite the ache in his bones, checking each one with a quiet word or a pat on the shoulder.

“You good?” He asked a limping curse-breaker, then passed a canteen to another, his care rough-edged but steady.

Tarok approached, his wiry frame casting a long shadow, and handed over a sack of coins— travel funds, as promised.

“Get them home.” He said, his voice gruff. “We can discuss the division of resources further once we’re in, shall we say, safer shores.”

“Agreed.”

Their eyes met— Goblin and wizard, bound by the dig’s trials and Bill’s sly win. He tucked the sack into his pack and gave the Goblin the final nod.

“Time to move.” Bill called, his voice carrying over the wind. The crew rallied, hoisting packs, helping the injured to their feet— Isolde grumbling as two teammates braced her up. Bill lingered a moment, his wand tucked into his belt, and cast a final look at the dig site.

The fools had their scraps, but he had the heart of it, hidden and his. The desert stretched endless before them, the horizon swallowing the day’s losses, and he turned away, his boots kicking up sand.