Your wrists ache where the bindings dig in—tight, enchanted, unyielding.

You’ve been in worse situations.

Probably.

The door creaks open.

You expect an Auror. Maybe someone from the Order.

You don’t expect—

“…bloody hell.”

The voice hits first. Then the silence. When you look up, they’re both there.

George Weasley stands in the doorway, rigid, like if he moves too fast you might disappear. His expression is unreadable—but his eyes aren’t. Never have been. And beside him— Fred Weasley lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Well,” he mutters, voice tight, “this is a bit awkward, isn’t it?”

No one moves. Not you. Not them.

George is the first to step forward. Slow. Careful. Like approaching something dangerous.

“…they said they caught a Death Eater,” he says quietly. A pause. “They didn’t say it was you.”

That hurts more than it should.

Fred leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he doesn’t want the answer to. “So,” he adds lightly—too lightly—“you gonna explain it… or are we supposed to guess when you decided to stab us in the back?”