FicWad

“Ron.”

Someone was shaking him gently.

“Ron, come on. Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Ron Weasley groaned and buried his face deeper into the pillow. But the voice—light and persistent—kept needling its way into his head. With a reluctant sigh, he prised his eyes open, blinking against the soft morning light that filtered through the dormitory windows.

He rubbed his face and sat up, hair sticking out in every direction. The golden light danced across the stone walls and the Hufflepuff banners above his bed, but Ron barely noticed.

“What time is it?” he mumbled, swinging his legs over the side. His feet sank into the thick carpet, and he dragged himself towards the bathroom, muttering to himself. The cold splash of water did little to lift the weight pressing down on his chest.

When he returned, the dormitory was empty.

Yawning, Ron trudged down into the Hufflepuff common room. It was peaceful—too peaceful. Golden sunbeams spilt through ivy-tangled windows, flickering across the warm tones of wood and stone. Enchanted ferns swayed lazily in their pots. The scent of soil and fresh parchment lingered in the air.

Normally, that comfort would settle him. Not today.

“Morning, Ron!” came a voice from near the fire.

Cedric Diggory sat with his feet up on a footstool, a book open in one hand. His dark hair was a little mussed, but his expression, as always, was clear and calm.

Ron gave a vague wave and sank into the armchair opposite. “Morning,” he mumbled through another yawn.

Cedric raised an eyebrow. “Rough night?”

Ron shrugged. “Something like that.”

Cedric shut the book, his voice softening. “Still thinking about the tournament?”

Ron didn’t answer straight away. He stared into the fire, watching the flames flick and curl. They reminded him of the way his thoughts had kept turning over and over all night.

“You know why the Headmaster chose you,” Cedric said. “You wouldn’t be a champion if you weren’t ready.”

Ron gave a humourless snort. “Easy for you to say.”

“It’s not easy,” Cedric replied. “But you’ve got the heart for it. You just need to trust yourself.”

Ron looked away, the pressure in his chest tightening.

“Maybe if I win,” he said quietly, “they’ll stop looking at me like I’m a mistake.”

Cedric’s brow furrowed. “Who does?”

“My family,” Ron muttered. “They all ended up in Gryffindor. I was supposed to. Instead I got sorted here. And ever since, it’s like… like I don’t fit anymore.”

Cedric was quiet for a moment. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” Ron said, voice thick. “But it’s the truth.”

He hesitated.

“Ginny’s a champion too,” he added, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s Gryffindor’s star. She doesn’t even have to try. And me? I’m the mistake that wound up in the wrong house.”

Cedric gave a low chuckle. “Siblings always compete. Doesn’t mean you’re not brilliant in your own right.”

Ron shook his head. “She’s got them all behind her. Mum, Dad, Bill, Percy—even Fred and George. I’ve got people wondering what went wrong with me.”

Cedric’s smile faded. “Nothing went wrong with you.”

But Ron barely seemed to hear him. “If I can just win—just once—maybe they’ll finally see me. Not just the tag-along. Not just a Weasley. Me.”

Cedric let him speak. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to fix it—just listened.

“And then there’s Granger and Potter,” Ron said, bitterness creeping in. “Granger’s always top of the class. Always knows what to say. And Potter…”

Cedric leaned back slightly. “Not a fan, then.”

Ron laughed, but there was no humour in it. “He calls me a blood traitor. Thinks being rich and ‘pure’ makes him better. He looks at me like I’m dirt.”

“You’re not the first he’s looked down on,” Cedric said evenly.

Ron clenched his jaw. “He doesn’t get to decide who matters. I’m going to prove I do. That all of us do.”

Cedric’s smile returned. “That’s the fire. Hold on to it.”

Ron blinked. It surprised him, hearing it aloud—believing it aloud.

Cedric rose, stretching. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat. You can’t face the world on an empty stomach.”

Ron hesitated, then got to his feet. The warmth of the common room curled around him again—not enough to drive off all the doubt but enough to hush it.

They walked towards the door together, the murmur of laughter and footsteps echoing just beyond.

Ron didn’t know what the tournament would bring. But for the first time in a long while, he felt like he might actually belong in the fight.

The Great Hall was alive with its usual morning hum—cutlery clinking, chatter rising like birdsong, owls swooping low to drop the post. Overhead, the enchanted ceiling reflected a pale blue sky, streaked with soft clouds. Sunlight poured through high windows, glinting off goblets and silverware. Toast passed hands, newspapers rustled, and laughter echoed from table to table.

But for Hermione Granger, it was all just noise.

She sat at the Ravenclaw table, a freshly creased copy of the Daily Prophet trembling slightly in her hands. Her heart thudded beneath her robes. Today’s edition wasn’t just news—it was confirmation. And there it was, halfway down the front page, bold as anything:

Hogwarts House Champions Announced

Ravenclaw: Hermione Granger

She stared. The words seemed to glow. Her breath caught. She blinked, once, twice, rereading them in case they’d changed.

They hadn’t.

She’d been chosen.

The swell of pride, disbelief, and something almost like panic surged inside her. But before she could even begin to process it, laughter rang out behind her—loud, mocking, unmistakable.

“Oh, please,” came Harry Potter’s voice, thick with disdain, “as if any of them stand a chance in the next task.”

Draco Malfoy snorted beside him. “Everyone knows who the real champion is. The rest are just background noise.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened on the paper. Her knuckles turned white.

She turned her head slowly. Harry and Draco were passing just behind her, walking deliberately slowly, voices pitched to carry.

“Imagine letting Mudbloods and blood traitors compete,” Harry added, shooting her a pointed look as they made their way towards the Slytherin table. “Dumbledore’s clearly losing the plot.”

A few Slytherins chuckled—forced, eager, cruel.

Hermione’s face burnt. Fury simmered low in her chest, hot and steady. She reached for her goblet of pumpkin juice and took a long gulp. It spilt a little, trickling down her chin. She didn’t bother to wipe it.

Across the table, Luna Lovegood watched her, serene and still, as though nothing at all had happened.

“They’re teasing you again,” she said, her tone gentle, as if she were commenting on the weather.

Hermione exhaled sharply. “So immature,” she muttered. “Potter struts around like he’s some gift to wizardkind. His parents must be thrilled—what an accomplishment, raising an entitled, arrogant—”

“If his parents hadn’t surrounded themselves with families like the Malfoys and Lestranges,” Luna said, “he might’ve turned out less poisonous.”

Hermione let out a low, dry laugh. “At this rate, I’d have a more sensible conversation with the giant squid.”

Luna tilted her head, thoughtfully. “Still. You’re the one who got chosen. That says something, doesn’t it? You’re clever, Hermione. You’ll win.”

Hermione’s lips twitched. “Thanks. It’s not like I have much choice.”

She glanced again at the Slytherin table. Potter was holding court at its centre, sprawled out, basking in attention like he owned the world. She bristled.

“He’s already convinced he’s won. Another title will just puff him up even more. I’m so tired of seeing his name in every bloody article.”

And it was. Scattered throughout the Prophet piece, glowing praise of Potter’s heritage, his “remarkable magical lineage”, and his supposed brilliance. As if the rest of them barely existed.

With a sharp flick, Hermione crumpled the paper and shoved it aside.

Luna blinked slowly. “Something upsetting?”

“It’s always the same rot,” Hermione snapped. “Bloodlines, house pride—like it’s some sort of sport. Actual merit? Doesn’t even make the footnotes.”

But before Luna could respond, another voice cut through the hum of the Hall.

“Doubt you even understand bloodlines, Granger.”

Hermione froze.

She rose slowly, her eyes cold as she turned.

“Do you always listen in on private conversations, Potter?” she asked coolly. “Or is it just part of your charm?”

Harry gave a lazy shrug, as though her words rolled off him. “Just thought I’d save you the trouble of embarrassing yourself further. Not everyone’s meant to compete at this level. Blood matters, Granger. You’ll learn that sooner or later.”

Hermione’s nostrils flared. Her voice dropped, low and venomous.

“What I’ve learnt is that your entire worldviewis a steaming pile of dragon dung wrapped in designer robes.”

The Great Hall went quiet.

Forks paused mid-air. Heads turned. Even the owls had stopped circling.

And Hermione didn’t look away.

Not this time.

Harry smirked. “Of course you’d say that. I mean, how could you understand? You didn’t grow up with magic. Your parents couldn’t teach you the difference between a Squib and a—”

He never finished the sentence.

Because Hermione’s wand was already in her hand.

The second the words left his mouth, something inside her cracked—too deep, too old to stop. Grief, injustice, exhaustion… years of biting her tongue and proving herself over and over again. It all rose like fire.

Gasps rippled through the Great Hall.

“You say one more word about my family,” she said, voice sharp, wand trained on him, “and I swear to Merlin, Potter, you’ll be croaking like a toad until NEWTs.”

Harry’s smirk faltered—only for a heartbeat. “Touchy,” he said lightly.

But Hermione didn’t flinch. She didn’t lower her wand. Her hand was steady. Her eyes, unblinking.

She didn’t need to hex him.

Not when everyone was watching. Not when, finally, they were seeing him for what he truly was:

A name.

A legacy.

A bully wrapped in privilege.

“Enough, Hermione.”

The words didn’t shout—they didn’t need to. Calm, quiet, and unyielding, they cut through the tension like a blade of air.

Ginny Weasley stepped between them, her flame-red hair catching the morning light, her presence calm but undeniable.

Her voice was warm, but it carried weight. “Hello, Harry… Hermione. What’s going on? Why’s your wand out?”

Hermione lowered her wand an inch, breathing hard. Her hands were shaking now, but she refused to show it. Harry didn’t respond—just stared at the floor, jaw tight, as if it might offer some way out of the mess he’d made.

“Nothing,” he muttered, the word dry and useless.

Hermione let out a hollow laugh. “Yes, nothing,” she echoed, the bitterness unmistakable. “Nothing except Potter doing what he does best—opening his mouth and letting rubbish fall out.”

Ginny frowned and stepped closer, slotting herself subtly between them. “This isn’t how it’s meant to be,” she said quietly. “We’re all champions now. Different houses, yeah, but one school. We’re supposed to stand together.”

Hermione’s mouth pulled into a thin smile. “Unity’s not really Harry’s strong suit, is it? He prefers the throne to the team.”

That got through.

Harry looked up, eyes flashing. “Unity?” he said coldly. “You just pulled a wand on me.”

“Because you insulted my parents,” Hermione snapped, her voice cracking. “You dragged them into this. Like they’re just some weakness to sneer at. Like they don’t matter.”

And for a second Harry’s expression shifted. Something behind the arrogance cracked. He looked startled. Cornered. Small.

But then the mask came back, thinner than before.

“Well,” he said, voice quiet, “it’s not like they can defend themselves. They’re—”

He never finished that sentence either.

Because the sound of Hermione’s fist connecting with his jaw silenced the entire Great Hall.

The slap of skin on skin echoed across the stones like a spell gone wrong.

Harry reeled back a step, stunned, a hand flying to his face. His cheek was already darkening. Around them, students froze—forks halfway to mouths, papers held mid-air, eyes wide in collective disbelief.

Some of the Slytherins began to rise. A few looked ready to retaliate. Others looked… impressed.

Ginny gasped. Her eyes flicked from Harry to Hermione and back, heartbeat rattling in her ribs. She’d seen arguments. She’d seen duels. But this wasn’t either.

This was heartbreak dressed as rage.

Hermione stood motionless, chest rising and falling. Her wand was forgotten. Her hand still trembled from the blow.

“Say that again,” she said, voice low and shaking, “and I won’t stop at bruising your pride.”

And then she turned, her robes snapping as she strode from the hall—head held high. She didn’t look back.

The silence that followed felt like breath held too long.

Ginny remained rooted where she stood.

She looked at Harry, who hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved. One hand still pressed to his jaw, his green eyes empty.

“Are you alright?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Harry snapped, the words sharp and bitter, spat more from pride than pain. His hand pressed firmly to his jaw—but the bruise to his ego was the deeper wound.

Ginny reached out without thinking, her hand hovering just inches from his arm. But the look he gave her stopped her dead.

It wasn’t anger—not really.

It was colder than that.

He looked at her like he didn’t recognise her. Like her concern was some kind of betrayal.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” He muttered. The words weren’t loud. Just laced with disdain.

Her hand dropped.

Her mouth parted slightly in shock.

“There’s no need to be cruel,” she said quietly. “I was only trying to help.”

But he’d already turned away, his back rigid with offence. He didn’t answer. Didn’t glance back.

He strode towards the Slytherin table, movements tight and clipped. A few of his housemates reached out to him, whispering in hushed tones.

Ginny stood still as the hall stirred back to life around her.

The chatter returned, and so did the clink of cutlery, but to her, it all sounded far away—muted.

She bit the inside of her cheek, hard, until the sting was sharp enough to focus her thoughts. She didn’t know what hurt more: Harry’s words or the fact that she still cared enough to be hurt by them.

Slowly, she turned and walked away from the centre of the hall. Her footsteps felt heavier than they should. She carried every unsaid word between them like a weight pressed against her ribs.

At the Gryffindor table, she sat in silence. Her fingers traced the worn grooves of the bench, the familiar surface suddenly unfamiliar. Across the hall, her eyes followed Ron as he made his way to the Hufflepuff table. His walk was stiff, his brow furrowed in concentration, like the whole world rested on his shoulders.

Her heart tightened.

He was trying so hard; he always had been.

She watched him a moment longer before a voice pulled her gently back into the present.

“Hello.”

It was soft but steady—and warm. A voice that didn’t demand anything from her, just offered presence.

She turned to find Cedric easing onto the bench beside her.

His smile was kind, genuine in a way that caught her off guard. He looked at her not with pity or polite curiosity but with real interest. Like he actually wanted to know how she was.

“Oh—hi, Cedric.” Her voice came out breathier than she meant it to. She looked quickly back at her plate, cheeks warming.

Her heart fluttered, and she hated how obvious it must be.

They’d spoken before—briefly, in passing—but something about this moment felt different. There was a kind of stillness in it. A quiet awareness that neither of them knew quite what to do with.

Cedric tilted his head slightly, a small smile playing at his lips. “Every time I see a Weasley lately,” he said, tone light but not mocking, “you all look like you’re carrying the castle on your backs. What’s going on?”

Ginny tensed.

The knot in her chest pulled tighter.

She knew exactly what was wrong—but she wasn’t going to hand that over just because he’d asked nicely.

“Nothing,” she replied, too quickly. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m fine.”

It was a lie. And a poor one.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—but it wasn’t quite easy either.

She glanced sideways at Ron again, hoping Cedric would follow her gaze. “Is he alright?” she asked, her voice quieter now, softer.

Cedric followed her line of sight. He nodded, but a faint line had appeared between his brows. “He’s alright,” he said, slowly. “Just…”

“Worried about the challenge?” She interrupted, sharper than she intended. “He’s desperate to prove himself, isn’t he?”

The bitterness in her voice caught her by surprise. It clung to her words like cold fog.

“So desperate,” she murmured again, this time more to herself.

There was a pause. Cedric didn’t look away, but something in his expression softened—his gaze gentled, like he was choosing his next words with care.

“I understand his desperation,” he said finally. “And I don’t think it’s a weakness. He’s trying to stand tall in his own way. Being a champion… it’s not just about the attention. It’s about courage. About proving to yourself that you belong.”

Ginny dropped her gaze, the tines of her fork slowly tearing through the scrambled eggs on her plate. His words brushed against something raw inside her, something she hadn’t been ready to name.

“Right,” she murmured. “So it matters. But he still thinks we don’t see it. That I don’t see it.”

Cedric didn’t answer straight away. When he did, his voice was quiet—almost careful.

“I thought you believed in unity. Between houses. Between people.” His eyes met hers again, calm but steady. “I heard what you said to Granger. To Potter. So… why not offer your brother that same faith?”

The question landed harder than she’d expected.

Ginny’s grip tightened slightly around her fork, the metal cool against her skin. Her throat felt tight.

“It’s not that simple,” she said at last, her tone clipped.

Cedric didn’t push. But the silence that followed said enough.

She could feel his gaze still on her—not pressing, not accusing—just there. Quiet. Patient. Like he was waiting for her to meet him halfway.

But she didn’t.

She shrugged, a shallow gesture, trying to brush the moment aside.

Cedric didn’t sigh or argue. He just offered her a final, quiet truth.

“Please… Just think about it. You might be the one thing holding him together.”

And with that, he stood—smooth and unhurried—and turned towards Ron. There was a calm resolve in the way he moved, like someone who knew when to step in and when to step back.

Ginny remained seated.

The murmur of the Great Hall rolled back over her in waves, but she sat apart from it, unmoved.

She stared down at her plate.

Still not hungry.

The knot in her chest hadn’t gone—but it had shifted. Just slightly. Enough to leave her wondering whether Cedric’s words might stay with her longer than she wanted them to.

Long after the morning faded.

Long after the Hall emptied.

The morning sun spilt like molten gold through the high windows, gilding the stone walls in a warmth that did little to thaw the unease knotting in the chests of the four students gathered beneath the unblinking gaze of the stone gargoyle. Outside, birds sang as if the world hadn’t changed, oblivious to the tension curling in the corridor’s still air.

Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny stood shoulder to shoulder, each silent, each tangled in thoughts they hadn’t dared to voice.

A soft grind of stone broke the quiet—the telltale whirring of enchantment. Moments later, the spiral staircase unfurled, and Albus Dumbledore descended, as though the castle itself were offering him up. His robes shimmered like flowing starlight, his gaze ageless—still carrying that curious glint of mischief—but today, it was tempered by something more guarded.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice gentle, almost absent. Then, with a tilt of his head, he beckoned them to follow.

They fell into step behind him, their footfalls soft on the flagstones as they passed familiar portraits, familiar doors. But before long, the way began to twist into unknown corridors—ones none of them had seen before. The windows thinned. The light dimmed.

Eventually, the path stopped altogether.

They stood before what seemed like a solid wall.

Professor Dumbledore turned. Light touched only half his face, casting the rest in shadow. It gave him an almost spectral presence, as though he were not entirely of this moment.

“Behind you lies the world you know,” he said, his voice low but clear. “Ahead… something quite different.”

Even as he spoke, the stone before them began to shift. A tall door emerged from the wall—ancient, richly carved, as though it had always been there, simply waiting for them to look.

Harry’s breath caught. The press of expectation he knew so well returned in full: the weight of headlines, of owl-post thick with doubt and disdain. He could still hear the words of strangers questioning his blood, his worth, and his right to stand where he did.

Professor Dumbledore stepped toward the door, resting a hand lightly against its surface.

“The challenges inside this room are not merely physical,” he said. “They will test your perception. Your judgement. Your capacity to look inward. You may falter. You may fail. Or you may learn. But you must enter with your eyes open.”

He looked at each of them in turn. Hermione, brows drawn, already analysing. Ron, jaw tight, wrestling with the edge of fear. Ginny, her chin lifted in quiet defiance. And finally Harry, whose heart beat loud and hollow in his ears.

There was no pressure in Professor Dumbledore’s gaze. Only possibility. And hope.

He stepped back.

Harry inhaled. So did the others.

And then they stepped through.

No sound greeted them. No blazing light, no grand moment—only silence. The air inside was thick, velvet-dark. Their outlines blurred, swallowed up in shadow. Behind them, the doorway dimmed, the light fading until it vanished altogether.

For a breathless moment, there was only the dark.

Then, silver smoke—curling from nowhere, slow and eerie, like a Patronus dissolving in reverse. Light bloomed in sudden bursts, casting moving shadows as the fog thinned to reveal a long table. Goblets, cauldrons, and vials lay scattered across its surface in no particular order.

But at the centre—placed with unmistakable intent—was a single golden vial. It glimmered faintly, its contents shifting in slow, hypnotic ripples, as if stirred by something unseen.

Ginny took a step closer. “Are we… brewing something?” she asked, eyes narrowing with interest.

Hermione didn’t answer at once. Her arms were folded, eyes narrowed. Every part of her radiated suspicion.

“No,” she said at last, half to herself. “It’s too obvious. This isn’t just about potion-making. It looks like a test of skill… But it’s testing something else.”

Her voice was quiet. But it carried.

And the others listened.

Before Ginny could respond, a dense plume of smoke erupted behind the table with a sharp hiss. Instinctively, the four stepped back, wands half-raised, as three figures began to emerge from the haze—unfamiliar shapes carved out of shadow and smoke, like spectres summoned from another world.

The first was an elderly woman in plain robes, her hair pulled tightly back, a slender wand gripped in a steady, weathered hand. Her posture was upright, her presence composed—but there was defiance in the way she held herself, quiet and unshakeable.

Harry leaned towards Ron, his voice low and quick. “Do you think she’s Muggle-born?”

Ron shot him a glance, brow furrowed. “Does it matter?” he muttered, irritation threading his tone. “You sound like Malfoy.”

Harry flinched—barely—but said nothing.

The woman offered no words. Her eyes moved over them one by one, weighing something unseen. Whether she was a test, a warning, or a plea, none of them could say.

In the centre of the chamber, the second figure writhed, caught in the grotesque mid-point of transformation. Flesh bulged and twisted; joints snapped and realigned with sickening inevitability. The werewolf’s agony bled into the air, voiceless but undeniable.

Hermione recoiled, hand covering her mouth. “That’s awful,” she breathed, her voice raw with horror.

Ginny’s arms folded tightly over her chest. “That’s… so disturbing,” she murmured, eyes locked on the convulsing figure.

Harry’s expression didn’t shift. His gaze was steady, almost clinical. “What did you think it looked like?” he said coolly. “That’s a werewolf transformation.”

“I know that,” Hermione snapped, stung less by the image than by Harry’s indifference.

The third figure had now taken form: an old man in a thin, colourless shirt striped with faint grey. His eyes were sunken, his face hollowed by more than age—by suffering, by isolation, by something deeper than time.

“Azkaban,” Harry said under his breath. “He’s a prisoner.”

The air pulsed.

From the remnants of smoke rose curling wisps of silver—tendrils that wove themselves into elegant script, suspended in midair like breath on glass. A riddle began to form:

Three humans stand before you

Each of their lives will soon undo

A bottle of cure ready to unscrew

To whom shall you give it to?

The final line lingered in the air, echoing faintly—too light for the weight it carried.

They stood in silence. The decision hung like a sword above them.

“So,” Ginny said, frowning, “it’s a choice.”

“Obviously,” Harry replied, stepping forward. “One cure. One chance. The rest—well.”

His eyes moved from the werewolf to the silent witch, then back to the prisoner. His decision, it seemed, had already been made.

Ron folded his arms. “Let me guess—you’d give it to the prisoner.”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

“Of course?” Hermione echoed, incredulous. “He’s the one you think deserves it most?”

Harry shrugged. “The other two? One’s a half-breed. The other—” he nodded towards the woman “—is Muggle-born. Don’t pretend that doesn’t mean something.”

Ginny’s voice trembled. “That’s disgusting. You don’t even know them.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “It’s called strategy. We were told to choose. I made mine. There’s no right or wrong here—just outcomes.”

Hermione’s voice cut like flint. “You’re letting your biases blind you. That’s not strategy. That’s cowardice dressed up as logic.”

Harry gave a tight, twisted smile—half sneer, half challenge. “Then make your choice, Granger. If you’re so sure of yourself. But don’t pretend this is about morality. It’s about action.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It throbbed.

Before anyone could stop him, Harry stepped forward and snatched the vial from its pedestal. The golden liquid shimmered in the low light, catching like fire in glass. Without hesitation, he turned and marched towards the prisoner.

The man’s eyes widened—not in hope, but in quiet, startled confusion. Still, he took the offered potion. It slid down his throat like sunlight swallowed in shadow.

The silence that followed was absolute.

There was no glow, no transformation. The prisoner remained exactly as he was—only now, a slow, tentative breath escaped him. A quiet exhale. Relief, perhaps. Or resignation.

Then, with a soft pulse, the vial reappeared on the pedestal—refilled, untouched, as though it had never left.

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “It… reset?”

Ron’s eyes darted from the prisoner to Harry, disbelief etched across his face. “What did you just do?”

Harry turned back, calm—almost amused. “Exactly what the room asked.”

“You gave that man a chance based on nothing but your own prejudice,” Ginny hissed, incredulous.

Harry shrugged. “Someone had to choose. You lot were too busy moralising.”

He moved towards a shadowy archway that hadn’t been there before. A door, tall and dark, stood ajar as though waiting only for him. Its hinges did not groan; it welcomed him like a secret.

Ron stepped forward. “Wait—how do you even know that door’s meant for you?”

Harry paused. “Maybe because I acted. Maybe because I was right.”

And without looking back, he stepped through the door.

It closed behind him with a soft whisper, sealing the moment like a breath held too long.

Hermione was the first to speak, her voice uncertain. “I didn’t think it would open unless we made the rightchoice.”

“Maybe that was the right choice,” Ginny murmured, though the words sounded unsure even to her.

“Or maybe the whole thing’s designed to make us question everything,” Ron muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe that’s the point. Doubt. Instinct. No right answer—just… who we are.”

Hermione crossed her arms more tightly. “Professor Dumbledore said our perception defines the path. What if we’re already failing?”

Their eyes turned to the three figures, still silent, still waiting. The golden vial shimmered again on its pedestal, pulsing softly—expectant.

Then Ginny stepped forward. She took the vial gently, like it might vanish in her hand. Its contents glowed, trembled faintly as though sensing her resolve.

She didn’t wait. She turned to the werewolf.

Their eyes met—hers calm, steady; his still full of pain. She passed him the vial.

He took it without protest. A small, grateful nod passed between them.

“I suppose I’ll see you on the other side,” Ginny said lightly, though the edge of nerves threaded her voice. Her smile was real—but careful, like something held just shy of breaking.

Without looking back, she walked to the same door Harry had taken. Her hair caught the light like a flare in the dark.

The door closed behind her with a soft click—final, like wax pressed to parchment.

Silence settled once more. Only two remained.

Ron shifted beside Hermione, the weight of indecision thick in the air.

“You can go first,” she said, her voice measured. But something flickered in her eyes—worry, or perhaps the quiet need to control what little she could.

Ron hesitated, looking to the door. “I can wait. Doesn’t bother me.”

Hermione shook her head. “No. I’ll go last.”

Their eyes met. A moment passed between them—unspoken understanding and the ghost of fear.

“You sure?” Ron asked, taking a small step closer. “I mean… they seemed alright. Nothing looked—bad.”

Hermione drew in a slow, deliberate breath. “We don’t know that. And besides…” Her voice dropped. “Someone needs to be careful. This isn’t a game.”

Ron nodded, reluctant but resolute, and after a lingering pause, stepped towards the final figure—the elderly woman who stood like an anchor in time, her presence calm and composed. Her lined face softened as he approached. Without a word, he handed her the vial.

She accepted it with a small, knowing smile.

That look settled something in him.

With one last glance over his shoulder, Ron squared his shoulders and stepped through the door. Gone.

And Hermione was alone.

Silence bloomed around her—vast and reverent. She didn’t move. She simply breathed.

Before her, three figures remained, still waiting: the weathered prisoner, hollow-eyed; the Muggle-born witch, her hands trembling slightly; and the half-transformed creature, frozen mid-motion, eyes wide with pain—and something else. Hope, perhaps.

Hermione stepped forward. Her shoes whispered across the stone, every footfall heavy with the weight of solitude and choice. Her heart drummed against her ribs, steady but solemn.

Professor Dumbledore’s words echoed in her mind: They will test your perception. Your judgement. Your capacity to look inward. You may falter. You may fail. Or you may learn. But you must enter with your eyes open.

She paused at the table—cluttered, tarnished, chaotic. A scattering of goblets, stained vials, and warped ladles. Her gaze swept across the mess, searching for meaning in disorder. Her fingers grazed one of the chalices.

“This can’t just be symbolic,” she murmured. “There’s intention here.”

She looked again at the vial in her hand. The potion glowed faintly—warm, unassuming, but unbearably heavy with consequence. The riddle returned to her, the silence of the room, the echoes of decisions already made.

And then, slowly, a thought took root.

What if we all misunderstood?

What if the challenge was never about choosing one life?

Her eyes narrowed. With quiet precision, Hermione uncorked the vial.

She poured carefully, dividing the potion between three goblets, her hands steady even as a tremor built in her spine. One measure for each. No more, no less.

She carried them forward—first to the prisoner, then to the old witch, and finally to the creature caught in painful mid-transformation. Each accepted their portion in silence. Each drank.

Nothing happened.

For a moment, the stillness felt like failure.

Then the world split.

A white-hot jolt pierced behind Hermione’s eyes. She stumbled, gasping, vision fracturing like glass under pressure. The chamber dissolved around her. In its place—images. Not dreams. Not illusions. Vivid and impossible.

Laughter by the sea. Salt wind in her hair. Ron and Ginny beside her. Harry, alive and grinning. A cottage tucked against the cliffs. A moment of rest, stolen from the world’s chaos.

Then the image shifted—blurred, then refocused.

She saw herself again, standing with Ron and Ginny, a heavy, ancient tome clutched between them: Anima, the title etched in weathered runes. Behind them, Harry lay still in a narrow bed, pale but breathing. Urgency burnt in their voices, though the words passed like waves on stone.

Were these memories? Prophecies? Possible futures?

Her breath came short and sharp. These weren’t simply visions. They were strands of something larger—moments refracted through time, glimpses of connection. Not punishment. Not reward.

Bond.

The potion had not revealed a consequence. It had revealed communion—the weight and worth of shared lives.

Hermione blinked, and the chamber reformed around her, but it felt altered—softer at the edges, like something remembered rather than lived.

Before her stood a door, just slightly ajar. Carved from dark wood, it gleamed faintly in a light that had no source. No figure waited. No voice spoke. No riddle tested.

Only choice.

She paused, one final moment. Then she stepped forward.

The threshold tingled beneath her fingers—an electric pulse running along her skin, like magic recognising magic. Possibility humming in her bones.

The door closed behind her with a quiet sigh.

But this time, the silence it left behind wasn’t empty.

It was full—brimming with everything that had been given, everything that had been risked, and everything that had been learnt.