Stun them then paralyse them

The storeroom of Borgin and Burkes reeked of mould and dark enchantments, its shelves sagging under the weight of cursed relics that glinted faintly in the flickering light of a lone sconce. Harry, Cassiopeia, and Pansy huddled beneath the Invisibility Cloak, their breaths shallow, the air thick with tension.

The heavy velvet curtain before them trembled, stirred by the heated voices beyond—Bellatrix Lestrange’s shrill laughter slicing through the low growl of Fenrir Greyback and the sharp cadence of an unfamiliar **** Eater. They spoke of the Vanishing Cabinet, their plan to invade Hogwarts, their confidence a bitter sting in Harry’s ears.

Cassiopeia’s fingers, icy and trembling, clung to Harry’s hand, her fear a silent pulse against his skin. Pansy’s wand glowed faintly, her posture taut, her dark eyes scanning the shadows for any hint of danger.

Harry’s grip on his wand tightened, the wood warm and familiar, his newfound power thrumming within him like a caged storm. He could end this now, with a single spell amplified by his voice. His lips parted, the words rising like a tide.

“All the **** Eaters in this room are stunned by a single Stupefy,” Harry whispered, his voice barely audible, laced with intent. The air crackled, a ripple of magic surging outward as if the world itself bent to his will.

A cacophony of thuds followed—bodies collapsing, chairs skidding across the floor, a goblet shattering in a spray of dark liquid. The silence that descended was heavy, broken only by the faint drip of spilled wine.

Cassiopeia’s breath hitched, her grip tightening, her wide eyes darting toward the curtain. “Merlin, Harry, how did you—” she started, but he pressed a finger to his lips, silencing her, his heart racing.

They don’t know, he reminded himself, the secret of his power a weight he carried alone. Pansy’s brow furrowed, her wand twitching, but she said nothing, her gaze flicking between Harry and the curtain, a mix of awe and suspicion in her eyes.

He nudged them forward, parting the curtain with a flick of his wand, the Invisibility Cloak shrouding them as they stepped into the back room.

The scene was a tableau of chaos—Bellatrix sprawled across a table, her wand dangling from limp fingers, her wild hair fanned out like spilled ink. Greyback slumped against a wall, his feral features slack, while three other **** Eaters lay crumpled on the floor, their hooded robes tangled like discarded shrouds. The air reeked of sour wine and fear, the torchlight casting jagged shadows across their still forms.

Harry’s gaze locked onto Bellatrix, her chest rising faintly, her stunned expression a mockery of the cruelty that had stolen Sirius. His wand trembled, rage and grief clawing at his chest, urging him to end her.

But he needed them secure, unable to fight back. “All the **** Eaters in this room are bound by Petrificus Totalus,” he murmured, his voice steady, the words weaving through the air like threads of steel.

Their bodies stiffened, limbs locking as if encased in invisible chains, their eyes—those still visible—glinting with impotent fury. Bellatrix’s gaze, glassy yet defiant, seemed to pierce through the cloak, igniting a fresh wave of anger in Harry. His wand twitched, the temptation to speak her **** a burning whisper in his mind. One sentence, and she’d pay for Sirius, for everything.

Cassiopeia’s grip tightened on Harry’s wrist; desperation etched into her trembling voice. “Harry, don’t do this!” Her eyes, wide with fear and shimmering with unshed tears, searched his face. “She’s, my aunt. I know what she’s done, but you’re not like her. Please, don’t let anger turn you into something you’re not.” Her plea was fragile, a tangle of anguish and hope that anchored him in place.

Pansy, ever vigilant, hovered at his side. Her wand remained steadily aimed, but her tone was measured and unwavering. “Listen to her, Harry. Taking a life won’t erase your pain or her crimes. It’ll only follow you.” She reached out, resting a calming hand on his shoulder, her gaze steady and imploring.

A shaky breath raked through Harry as he lowered his wand, Cassiopeia’s words clinging to his conscience. The urge for retribution flickered, but the trust reflected in her tearful eyes rooted him firmly to the present. He understood, then—with chilling clarity—that he was not meant to be judge or executioner. Not now. Not ever.

“I won’t kill her,” he said, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. Cassiopeia’s shoulders sagged, a sob escaping her as she squeezed his hand, her relief palpable. Pansy’s lips curved into a faint, approving nod, though her eyes remained sharp, scanning the stunned figures.

Harry surveyed the room, observing the immobilized **** Eaters who now awaited his judgment. Turning them over to the Ministry was an option; he could expose Borgin and Burkes as their operational base. By alerting authorities to its role as a meeting ground for **** Eaters, Aurors might intervene and disrupt their plans. Yet, Harry doubted whether the Ministry—with its corruption and inefficiency—was capable of securely containing formidable figures like Bellatrix.

His mind wandered to Cassiopeia and Pansy, both displaying unwavering loyalty rooted in their respect for him, even at considerable personal risk. If persuasion had earned their allegiance, perhaps he could influence the **** Eaters themselves and steer their actions against Voldemort. This idea, though fraught with danger, seemed oddly appealing, prompting Harry to weigh its potential carefully.

As he steeled himself to speak, Cassiopeia touched his arm. Her hand trembled, and her face betrayed tension and worry. “Harry,” she murmured, “please think through your next move. These people are extremely dangerous. It's important to proceed carefully to avoid consequences you don't intend.”

Pansy aimed her wand at Harry and spoke with measured clarity. "You have them, Harry. What will you do next? You cannot leave them like this." Practical as ever, she remained unaware of just how far his abilities extended.

While Harry weighed his choices—whether to bind the **** Eaters or not—he also grappled with his sense of duty. He was acutely conscious that manipulating their minds or inflicting harm would mirror the very acts Voldemort had committed.