FicWad

Molly paced the dimly lit room, her hands twisting together, the soft glow of moonlight casting shadows on her anxious face. She glanced toward the four motionless forms, each swathed in shimmering fabric that sparkled faintly—a result of Slughorn’s hastily conjured beds. Harry lay at the centre, flanked by Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, still and quiet as though they were merely sleeping, yet Molly knew better.

“How much longer do we have to wait for them to regain consciousness?” Molly asked impatiently. Her anxiety was evident on her face, lit by the moonlight. She felt Slughorn was hiding something about the predicament they were in, causing her distress at the thought of Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny struggling mentally and emotionally.

Horace stood with a gravity equal to her own, his brow furrowed as he stared into the shimmering void of the ritual’s aftermath. “I cannot say,” he replied with a sigh, the weight of uncertainty making his voice tremble slightly. “The ritual provided no insight into their ordeal. All we can do is wait.”

Hagrid shifted uneasily. “They will wake up, won’ they?” he asked, his tone wavering like a breeze through leaves, as if hoping to quell the unseen storm brewing around them.

Slughorn met Hagrid’s gaze, the flickering candlelight catching the tiredness pooling in his eyes. “If the ritual is unsuccessful, I fear Harry may not wake up,” he said slowly, each word tinged with a heavy finality that sent a chill through the room.

A wave of horror swept over Molly and the others as they turned toward the young adults, horror straining against the edges of hope. How could they be so close to losing Harry? The thought of him trapped, battling something they couldn’t see, struck at her heart with the ferocity of a bludger. She once again recalled the raw determination in Harry’s eyes, a fire that had always burnt against the dark forces they faced. He had fought so many battles, yet this—this fight lay too deep within, obscured, elusive.

Hagrid stiffened, his massive frame stooped as he fixated on Harry’s breathing. It was steady, a rhythmic sound that provided a meagre comfort, yet Molly noticed his complexion—paler than the moonlight bathing them all—and the stress etched in fragile lines across his face. Even the faintest curl of his dark hair appeared lifeless.

They were engrossed in contemplation when a sudden, forceful tapping noise caught their attention. All heads snapped toward the window, where a wild-eyed owl flapped in a frenzy, gripping a vibrant red envelope in its beak. The sight sent a jolt down Molly’s spine, and she could feel her heart race as Bill rushed to the window, opening it wide enough for the distressed bird to enter.

“Why would George send a Howler?” Percy mused aloud, a frown creasing his forehead, his typically meticulous demeanour disrupted.

Before Molly could reply, Bill snatched the envelope, an urgency in his movements. The instant he tore it open, an avalanche of sound burst forth, filling the room with Corban Yaxley’s guttural voice—a message laced with malignant glee.

WE HAVE YOUR PRECIOUS SON, GEORGE. IF YOU WANT TO SEE HIM ALIVE, BRING POTTER TO THE FORBIDDEN FOREST. YOU HAVE UNTIL MIDNIGHT.

As the words rolled through the room, penetrating every heart, the atmosphere froze, leaving only the gasp of air escaping from Molly’s lips. Bill’s hands trembled as he held the red envelope, and they all watched in horrified fascination as it ignited, turning into a pile of ash that floated away, sucking the warmth from the room. An oppressive silence fell upon them, each pair of eyes searching for answers that lingered just out of reach.

“M-My George,” Molly stuttered as panic surged through her, one hand pressed tightly against her chest, almost as if trying to quell the frantic beating of her heart. Her gaze darted around the room, landing on Arthur, whose face was a mirror of her own fears—panic and helplessness.

“We only have four hours until midnight,” Arthur said, urgency clawing at his voice like a distant storm. He shifted as if the weight of the situation bore down on him, every second stretching interminably under the strain of their dread.

Hagrid, who had been standing in the corner with a furrowed brow, rumbled, “How do we know if that Howler was spoutin’ the truth? Yaxley might be playin’ us.” His eyes, wide and round as saucers, fixated on the remnants of the Howler—what once held such power was now merely a shadow of its former self.

“I can check the joke shop,” Percy spoke up decisively, jabbing a thumb toward the door. “George lives just above it.” The determination in his voice sparked flickers of hope amongst them, though worry creased his brow too.

“Let us know once you find out, son,” Arthur replied, nodding, his face drawn tight with concern. Without any hint of hesitation, Percy disapparated, leaving behind the echo of a son’s desperate determination.

“I’ll have to talk to Kingsley,” Arthur said, shifting his gaze toward Molly, who felt as though every word of comfort was slipping through her fingers like sand. “We’ll need to devise a plan, and we may have to go there without Harry.”

“But they’ll kill George if Harry’s not with us!” Molly exclaimed, her voice trembling as tears brimmed in her eyes. She pressed her palms together, feeling the sweat of anxiety as it trickled down her back. Each second felt like a ticking time bomb.

Arthur forced a small, comforting smile, though it barely touched his eyes. “We can’t jump to conclusions just yet, my love. We must think about this rationally.” With a brief kiss meant to quell her fears, he turned, striding out the door and disappearing from sight.

Molly was left standing with Hagrid, the walls of Shell Cottage echoing the silence that enveloped her heart. Each second stretched painfully, her thoughts spiralling into dark landscapes painted with shadows of the worst possibilities. She found herself at the window, eyes glued to the horizon, praying for George’s safety while a chill swept through the air.

The room Hermione found herself in was dark and circular, reminiscent of the first one they had encountered. The only source of light emanated from the centre, revealing two tall, magnificent mirrors with knobs in front of them. The chamber felt almost alive; the shadows seemed to dance, whispering secrets that only the bravest would dare to uncover.

“What took you so long?” Harry’s voice cut through the darkness, tinged with annoyance. She could see the flicker of worry in his emerald eyes, a reflection of the weighty task ahead.

“It’s not like I’m a time-turner,” Hermione snapped, her tone sharp enough to slice through the heavy air. “If you’re in such a rush, you could’ve gone ahead without me.”

Harry scowled, disappointment flaring in his expression. “I would have,” he replied, sarcasm dripping from his words. “But the room wouldn’t disclose the details of the task until we were all present. Finally, you decided to show up.”

Feeling a heat rise in her cheeks, Hermione clenched her fists. “How was I supposed to know that?” She fought to steady her voice, taking a breath to cool the flames of irritation. “I’m here now, so stop complaining!”

In a fit of rage, Harry turned around and walked away, his cloak billowing dramatically behind him. Ginny, observing the bickering between them, let out a sigh and followed Harry.

“Are you alright?” Ron’s voice was soft and careful, but Hermione could hear the tension beneath it.

“I’m fine,” she replied curtly, though it pricked at her heart that she’d lied. The honesty in Ron’s eyes made it hard to bear.

“What happened earlier? Did something go wrong?” he pressed, genuine concern knitting his brows together.

Hermione looked down, avoiding his gaze as if he might somehow unravel the tangled feelings swirling inside her. The vision still lingered in her mind, vivid as a painting; it felt almost tangible. But speaking of it meant revealing a vulnerability she wasn’t ready to confront.

“No,” she finally whispered, her voice barely above a breath. For a moment, she allowed the weight of his stare to settle upon her like a cloak, heavy yet warm. Then, she lifted her gaze to his, a sudden intensity igniting the space between them. “Did you experience a headache and a vision after completing the first task?”

Ron blinked, confusion painting his features. “What do you mean by a vision?”

Hermione took a deep breath and recounted what she had seen—the fleeting images that slipped in and out of focus, a world where Harry was her friend, tinged with shades of despair and urgency. By the time she finished, Ron was silent, his brow furrowed, lost in thought.

“Have you ever had a similar memory like this before?” he finally asked, searching her expression.

Hermione’s chest tightened. “I highly doubt I would have memories of Potter as a friend,” she replied firmly, the sting of each word echoing across the chasm that had formed between her and Harry. “As you know, he and I are not on good terms.”

“True,” Ron said, his tone shifting to one of contemplation. “Maybe you were seeing the future!” A youthful optimism flickered in his eyes, a spark of hope that made Hermione’s heart ache.

“I’m not sure.” Her voice was low, contemplative. She fiddled with the hem of her skirt, the fabric twisting beneath her fingers as she avoided his gaze. “It didn’t feel like the future. It felt like a different reality was happening simultaneously. Do you understand?”

Ron nodded, the gears turning in his head. “Yes, I do. But why are these visions occurring now?”

Hermione’s throat tightened; she could feel the weight of his scrutiny. “It’s puzzling,” she admitted, her voice barely breaking the silence of the hall. “I administered the potion to all of them to protect them. And then this began.”

“Perhaps it was due to your unique approach to the challenge,” Ron suggested earnestly. “Your actions differed from the others.”

“No, that can’t be it,” Hermione breathed, the worry creasing her forehead as she stared into Ron’s earnest eyes. “The vision felt too real. I feel compelled to act, even if I don’t know how.”

Ron’s expression shifted to disbelief, a mix of admiration and caution as he echoed, “How could you possibly act on these visions? It’s impossible to transport yourself to another dimension.”

“I don’t have the answer,” she insisted, her voice trembling slightly. “But it must be connected to the tasks somehow.”

In a dimly lit chamber filled with reflections, the four representatives now stood face to face with their deepest desires, each of them confronting the duality of their existence mirrored before them. They faced two opposing surfaces: one that revealed their current selves, an honest reflection of who they were at that moment, and the other that beckoned with visions of who they longed to be.

The shimmering surface of the right mirror glimmered enticingly, drawing them in with promises of a life adorned with achievements and glory, while the left one held a raw and unvarnished truth.

“Who are you?” The distant voice shattered the temporary silence, resonating with an unsettling curiosity. It caused Harry to fixate on the mirrors, lost within a labyrinth of reflections.

To the left, he saw his ordinary self in everyday attire, while to the right, the mirrors showed him as successful versions of himself—as the Minister of Magic in elegant robes, as the Head Auror in a heroic pose, and as a dashing Healer in a pristine uniform. Each reflection of success resonated with wild aspirations that danced just out of reach. Harry felt an ache in the pit of his stomach as he weighed the commonplace against the extraordinary. Compared to the enticing images on the right, the reflection on the left seemed dull and unremarkable.

“Does it show the future?” Ginny whispered breathlessly, turning her attention to the enticing reflections, her eyes wide with fleeting fantasies.

“No,” Ron interjected, a twinge of annoyance colouring his voice. He angled his face toward the mirror on the right, where he stood exalted, holding the Triwizard Cup with his proud parents watching on with beaming smiles, providing a vision of everything he had ever wanted in life. As Ron struggled to come to terms with his current circumstances, the reflection in the mirror made him yearn for that idealised version of himself. In other images, he saw himself as a renowned alchemist or as a respected professor at prestigious schools, while the mirror on the left only reflected his true self as he was in that moment.

“Then what does it do, exactly?” Ginny pressed, unwilling to concede her curiosity.

Harry, captivated by the mirrors’ seductive narratives, stared earnestly. “The mirrors allow us to see the deepest desires of our hearts.”

Similarly, when Hermione and Ginny gazed into the mirror on the right, they too saw their aspirations portrayed within the magical objects. Hermione envisioned herself as the Headmistress of Hogwarts, adorned with Order of Merlin awards for her achievements, and recognised as an Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, feeling a sense of pride towards her envisioned future self. Ginny, on the other hand, saw herself as the Quidditch Captain for the esteemed Holyhead Harpies and as the Senior Quidditch Correspondent for the Daily Prophet. Just like Harry and Ron, they only saw their unchanged reflection in the left mirror, undisturbed by the tempting visions on the right.

“Isn’t it intriguing that there are two mirrors facing us, forcing us to make a choice?” Hermione interjected, ever the analytical thinker. Her mind raced, dissecting the implications of their reflections. “One reflects what we are, while the other reveals what we aspire to become. It’s almost as if it’s offering us a choice—a path to follow.”

“Right,” Ginny agreed, reaching out tentatively towards the mirror of desires, her heart thundering at the thought of stepping through and grasping her dreams as tangible realities.

But Harry’s impatience surged. “Don’t overthink it.” His words hung heavy in the air, laced with urgency. His fixation had awakened something deep within him—a blend of yearning and frustration. “The right mirror shows where you truly belong, not the mundane left.”

Hermione frowned thoughtfully at the prospect. “But don’t we all want the same thing? Isn’t it important to analyse what we desire?”

“Nothing!” Harry replied impatiently. “You can achieve your aspirations regardless of the mirror you choose.”

“I’m just saying there has to be a reason for this,” Hermione attempted to explain.

Though Ron agreed with her logic, he found himself drawn towards the right mirror, as if crossing through it would bring his deepest desires to life.

Harry flared with impatience again. “Think what you will, but make a decision quickly! Your delay is testing my patience,” he snapped, gripping the doorknob that led into the right mirror. He confidently entered, leaving the others behind.

Frustrated, Hermione cursed under her breath, her brow knitted in concern. “Why can’t he take a moment to think? Rushing isn’t the answer!”

“Just let him decide,” Ron soothed, though he too struggled with Harry’s reckless determination. The unease tied his stomach in knots.

Hermione shot Ron an exasperated look. “What if—”

“He knows what he’s doing,” Ginny reassured her, placing a sympathetic hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “Sometimes following your instincts leads you to unexpected places. Look at how far we’ve come!” She stepped more resolutely toward the right mirror and disappeared.

“It’s just you and me now,” Ron sighed, his eyes scanning the reflections again. He felt that ache within him too, a dream long nestled in the corners of his desires. “Though I’m tempted to go right, I think I’ll trust your instinct, Hermione. Would you like to go first?”

“Okay.” Hermione nodded, plucking up her courage. She edged toward the left mirror, taking a deep breath as she reached for the knob. She glanced back at Ron, a sense of connection wrapping around them. “I’ll see you on the other side,” she breathed, steadying herself as she disappeared through the left mirror.

Following Hermione’s lead, Ron entered the left mirror behind her. As the door clicked shut, he was suddenly engulfed in a whirlwind of vivid visions that seemed to pulse around him, consuming his senses. Memories—some faint, others piercingly sharp—flashed before his eyes, overwhelming him with confusion and surprise. It took him a moment to collect himself, and grasp the reality of what he had just seen.

When he opened his eyes, he found Hermione watching him, her own expression a mix of astonishment and something deeper, an unspoken heaviness shared between them.

“D-did you see it, too?” she asked anxiously, her voice trembling with a hint of fear.

“Yes, I did,” Ron replied, nodding as the fragments of his vision coalesced in his mind. “At first, I thought I was hallucinating, but then I saw multiple images that confirmed it.”

“What exactly did you see?” Hermione pressed, her curiosity bubbling beneath her evident anxiety.

Ron took a deep breath, words tumbling into place as he recalled the images flickering through his mind. “I witnessed a version of myself and Harry walking together at Hogwarts. We were both sorted into Gryffindor and had countless adventures. It was surreal, Hermione, because I never really thought we could be friends like that.”

“Isn’t it all so strange?” she whispered in wonder, her emotions a cocktail of anxious anticipation and minute trepidation.

“I felt like I was actually there, living those moments with Harry,” he continued, his expression troubled. “It felt too real to be mere visions. But why did he seem so ill, like he was on the brink of something terrible?”

Alarm flashed in Hermione’s eyes. “You saw that too?” she asked, her voice edged with urgency.

“Yeah. My mother was tending to him in the living room, and it reminded me of the vision I had before.” Ron’s brow furrowed in thought.

“I had a similar experience,” Hermione said, excitement creeping back into her tone. “In my vision, there was a book titled Anima being read by another version of myself. Have you heard of it before?”

“Anima means ‘soul,’” Ron explained, his mind racing to keep up with her enthusiasm.

“I think this is more than just some random visions,” Hermione said, hesitating slightly but firm in her resolve. “Every time we deviate from the expected path in these tasks, the visions become clearer. It’s like they’re connected somehow. The Harry in my vision... he’s different. He’s accepting of all kinds of magical beings and doesn’t care about blood purity. He seems to embody an ideal that the Harry we know hasn’t yet realised.”

Ron nodded, a mix of agreement and unease washing over him. “I see what you mean. The Harry we saw in that world is a beacon of morality. I think I may even like him more than our Harry.” He dared a glance at the dark-haired boy leading the way down the torchlit corridor, unaware of the weight of destiny hanging over them.

They both took off to catch up with Harry and Ginny, hearts racing with the possibilities that lay ahead. However, as they approached the pair, Hermione froze, as if her feet had been rooted to the ground.

“What’s wrong, Hermione?” Ron asked with concern.

“I could hear it, Ron,” she replied, her voice trembling. Her eyes widened with both fear and fascination. “It was like I was transported into that moment, experiencing everything beside them. I could picture it so vividly that I almost heard their conversation.”

“Wait, heard what?” Ron asked, perplexed.

She took a moment, her mind racing through possibilities, before saying, “I believe Harry’s soul is damaged. I saw us performing a spell. This reality we’re in... maybe it’s not as real as we think.”

Ron’s brow knitted in confusion. “What do you mean, Hermione? How can this not be real?” Doubt crept into his mind, but Hermione’s intensity held his gaze.

“I don’t know how to explain it, but trust me, Ron. Try immersing yourself in those visions. You may find clarity,” she urged, her determination evident.

Ron took a deep breath, holding her gaze, and for a moment the world around them blurred, fading into the background. He plunged into his thoughts, revisiting the whirlwind of memories from the second task, where confusion and fear—raw emotions—had gripped him.

Whispers wrapped around him, Harry’s voice beckoning from somewhere distant, though the words eluded him. The scene flickered before him, shifting to reveal a poorly lit room. Hermione and Ginny were standing near a bed, their worried faces hovering over Harry, who looked up at them with a smile that seemed almost unreal.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me,” Harry’s voice echoed, faint yet resonant. “I’m uncertain of what the future holds, but—”

And then the vision shifted again. Ron leaned forward in frustration as the scene dissolved into an array of swirling colours. Suddenly, he beheld their friends consuming a mysterious potion, a luminescent light emerging from their forms, swirling towards Harry like a patronus zooming toward a dementor.

Ron felt a knot tightening in his stomach. This imagery left him tinged with both intrigue and concern.

Before Ron could share with Hermione what he had seen, the four of them stepped into a brightly illuminated chamber with a high ceiling resembling a Quidditch stadium. Four broomsticks materialised before them, and a golden snitch fluttered nearby, its wings glinting mischievously in the luminescence, almost beckoning them to join the chase.

Ron’s thoughts were still entwined in the conversation from the corridor. He couldn’t quite fathom the implications of what Hermione had revealed—or maybe he didn’t want to. “Harry’s troubled soul” echoed in his mind like a haunting melody; it filled him with an unfamiliar sense of dread. He shook it off, focussing on the excitement of the snitch, but only for a moment.

He turned to Hermione, ready to voice his thoughts, but she interrupted him, her eyes never leaving the snitch. “Should we catch it?” she asked, betraying a flicker of nervousness despite her usual confidence on a broom. Ron admired her bravery, but he sensed the tremor beneath her composed exterior.

“I think so,” came Ginny’s hesitant reply. Ron noted the way Hermione’s gaze darted around the chamber, perhaps searching for potential traps lurking in the shadows.

Meanwhile, Harry was already on his broomstick, soaring into the sky with a silence that spoke volumes. Ron admired Harry’s ability to dive headfirst into the unknown but felt frustrated that he seemed to sidestep the emotional turmoil threatening their unity.

Turning to Hermione, Ron couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer. “I caught some of what you were saying!” he exclaimed. “Harry was thanking us for helping him. We drank a potion and cast a spell, as you mentioned.”

“What are you babbling about?” Ginny’s voice cut through his thoughts, the harshness laced with scepticism. She had been listening to Ron and Hermione converse while their minds swirled around the idea of visions and realities.

Ron clenched the broomstick in his hand, forcing out the words that had been brewing inside him. “This might sound strange, Ginny, but after the first and second tasks, Hermione and I had a vision of all of us together.”

Ginny scoffed, arching an eyebrow. “A vision? Are you serious? And what, in this so-called vision, did you see?”

Hermione stepped in, a glow of determination igniting her words. “We were all friends, Ginny. There was a bond stronger than any spell, but Harry is struggling. His soul is damaged.”

At that, Ginny burst into laughter, the sound echoing uncomfortably in the vast chamber. “I know you don’t like Harry, Hermione. Being his friend is the last thing you’d want. Talking about his soul... It’s nonsense. How can I trust that you’re not making this up to gain an advantage in the competition?”

Hermione stood her ground firmly. “It’s not made up. Ron saw them too. How do you explain that?”

Ginny remained sceptical. “Who knows?”

Frustration throbbed in Ron’s chest. “Ginny, we didn’t imagine those visions. Why would you think that? We both saw them in our minds.”

Ginny remained unconvinced. “It’s obvious,” she retorted. “Because all I see is two people desperate to undermine Harry because you don’t like him. You’d do anything to stop him.”

“Do you see us stopping him now?” Ron snapped back, his agitation growing. “Can’t you feel there’s something larger at play? I can feel it.”

Ginny mounted her broom defiantly. “I don’t have time for this. We have a task to complete.” With that, she propelled herself into the air, leaving Ron and Hermione scrambling to keep up.

“What should we do now?” Ron asked anxiously, feeling more uncertain than ever as the chamber spun around him, the ceiling towering like an unpredictable storm.

Hermione took one of the remaining broomsticks, her expression fierce. “We need to find a way to convince your sister that we’re not wrong. We have to act fast.”

With determination, they soared into the sky, Ron trailing Ginny while Hermione pressed forward, trying to bridge the gap. The golden snitch danced above them, a symbol of hope, even as uncertainty gnawed at their hearts.

“Ginny!” Hermione shouted, her voice empowered against the wind. “Listen to me! These visions—Ron and I—Harry is in danger! We have to help him!”

Ginny halted midair, eyes blazing with irritation. “Nonsense! Visions are the offspring of your imagination! If you’re unhappy with your life, that doesn’t mean you get to drag me into it!”

Hermione’s desperation intensified. “But it’s not an illusion! You must believe us!”

“Well, tell me why I should!” Ginny snapped back.

“All I know is that our reality is more than what it appears to be,” Ron called, closing the distance. “What if something is controlling our perceptions? We have to fight against it!”

Ginny rolled her eyes sceptically. “Yeah, and what’s your grand plan? Let’s expose the ‘real’ Harry Potter?”

“It’s not about exposing; it’s about saving,” Ron insisted, a sense of urgency suffusing his voice. “Something is wrong, and if we want to help him, we need you to understand.”

As they hovered, Ron’s heart raced with the weight of his words. “You must convince yourself that this isn’t the true reality. This version of you is not who you are meant to be.”

Hermione chimed in, her voice steady. “You need to trust that there’s a purpose behind these visions, Ginny. Don’t let this external force dictate your feelings.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment as Ginny considered their words. “Fine. What do I need to do now?” she asked reluctantly, her passion wilting into quiet intrigue.

“Open your mind, your heart,” Ron urged. “Allow yourself to feel the truth beneath the surface. Let’s help Harry, together.”

“Together,” echoed Hermione, and the word resonated between them, igniting a fragile sense of hope.

Harry could feel the breeze rushing through his hair as he tore through the air on his broomstick, fuelled by a mix of adrenaline and frustration. He had been chasing the elusive Golden Snitch for what felt like an eternity, and it appeared determined to remain just out of his reach. No matter how fast he flew, the snitch danced like a flickering flame, disappearing and reappearing in a seemingly endless game of cat and mouse.

He glanced at his competitors, startlingly unfazed by the challenge. Ginny, Ron, and Hermione were engaged in a casual conversation that seemed remarkably out of place for a Quidditch match. Ginny’s laughter echoed against the stadium walls as she gestured with her hands, animated and carefree. Ron leaned back on his broom, a bemused look on his face, while Hermione fidgeted with her hair, trying to maintain her focus despite the distractions of her friends. They seemed to be in a world of their own, while Harry’s world revolved around that golden glimmer, forever eluding him.

“Focus, Harry,” he muttered to himself, shaking off thoughts of retreat. The comfort of his Slytherin common room beckoned, a sanctuary filled with familiar faces and pureblood pride. Yet here he was, chasing a fleeting dream, the hollow instinct to win pushing him forward.

His muscles were beginning to quiver with fatigue, but Harry wasn’t ready to concede. Not yet. With each sweep of his broom, he scoured the stadium and the ground below, hoping to catch sight of the snitch before it disappeared again. Just then, a flash of gold caught his eye—a momentary spark that ignited his spirit.

In his periphery, Ginny shot past him, her figure a blur of fiery determination. Something inside Harry ignited—competitiveness surged through his veins as he gripped his broom tighter and pushed himself into a daring flight, racing to keep pace with Ginny.

Flying side by side, their breath mingled in the brisk wind. He couldn’t help but admire the elegance with which Ginny moved through the air, her focus sharp and unyielding. But admiration wasn’t enough; he wanted to win. He needed to prove himself, not just to them, but to all of Slytherin, to himself.

“Just a few more strides,” he whispered, leaning forward as he guided his broom close to hers, searching for the snitch amidst the swirling blurs of colour that surrounded them. Ron and Hermione, still lagging behind, did little more than watch, their voices a distant hum merging with the rush of the wind.

And then it happened. As if mocking him, the snitch zigzagged wildly, targeting the opposite end of the pitch. Harry’s instincts kicked in, reflexively yanking the broom in its direction. He leaped forward, heart racing, but the sudden motion jolted his broomstick. It swerved sharply beneath him, threatening to buck him off.

With a gripping stranglehold on the handle, Harry fought to regain control, twisting around like a rag doll in a windstorm. Panic flared within him, fuelled by the ever-present thought of falling into the ground below.

Ginny hovered above the Quidditch pitch. As she searched for the elusive golden snitch, a familiar tension twisted in her gut, gnawing at her determination. Ron and Hermione’s strange visions had become a constant undercurrent in her thoughts, like an enigmatic melody that refused to fade. They had experienced something—something profound—while she was preoccupied with the tasks.

But today, as she twisted and turned through the air, darting her gaze in every direction, Ginny’s heart raced not just with the thrill of the chase but also with burgeoning questions. What did Ron and Hermione see? What terrible or beautiful truth clung to their visions like an unwanted shadow? The answers danced just out of reach, mocking her contemplative silence. Abandoning her dreams of glory as Hogwarts’ Triwizard champion seemed utterly ludicrous, but now the anxiety gnawed at her. Was she a mere marionette in a grand design she couldn’t comprehend?

In the midst of her turmoil, Ginny barely registered Harry’s faint shout. His voice seemed muted, eclipsed by her focus on the snitch. The golden ball shimmered in the sunlight, and she fixated on it as her heart pounded, each beat whispering her name. But then Harry’s urgency pierced her bubble of concentration.

A jolt shot through her as she tore her gaze away from the snitch, only to find her best friend teetering dangerously on the edge of his broom, high above the ground. Her heart plummeted. Panic surged as the ground rushed up to meet him. Without thinking, overcoming the doubt that had fraught her mind, Ginny surged forward, abandoning the chase entirely.

“Hang on, Harry!” she shouted, a note of fear lacing her voice.

Her fingers grasped his arm just as he began to lose his grip completely. The abruptness of her movements nearly knocked her off balance, and for a moment, everything seemed to hang in the air—time stretched and warped, just like the visions that haunted the others. Ginny felt adrenaline flood her body as she yanked Harry back, their eyes locking in a frantic, all-consuming moment. It was as if the world had narrowed down to just the two of them, hovering with neither fear nor the weight of responsibilities—the only thing that mattered was right then and there.

In that instant, a connection sparked—a solidifying bond that stitched together, like fragments of a broken memory. As they righted themselves on the broom, the weight of uncertainty lightened. Ginny felt something shift inside her, something akin to clarity.

But as the moment ended, and Harry’s relieved smile broke through the haze of fear, vivid images cascaded through Ginny’s mind. They began to unfold like scenes from a moving painting, rich with colour and depth. She saw faces—familiar yet foreign—anguish and triumph intermixed in an endless cycle.

Harry hovered on his broom. He noticed that Ginny appeared to be caught in a trance, her eyes glassy and unfocused, as if she were staring into a distant abyss. A quick glance around revealed Ron and Hermione were similarly mesmerised, their faces etched with expressions that oscillated between sorrow and fear.

Harry’s heart raced, a mixture of confusion and concern. Unsure of what was happening, he gradually manoeuvred his broom closer to Ginny. He reached out, gently shaking her shoulder.

“Ginny,” he called softly, his voice barely breaking through the haze that enveloped her. Her trembling form sent an icy wave of dread crashing through him as he noticed the welling tears in her eyes. “Are you alright?”

As the sound of broomsticks approached, Harry turned around to see that Ron and Hermione had finally caught up to them. “What’s going on?” Harry asked impatiently, a hint of his old stubbornness creeping back into his voice.

Ginny’s distant gaze shifted slowly toward him, her lips quivering as she whispered, “This isn’t real.” Her voice was fragile, breaking like glass. “I can hear him—I can feel his pain.”

Harry felt a flash of impatience surge through him. “What do you mean? What isn’t real?” He glanced from Ginny to Ron and Hermione, his confusion deepening as their expressions mirrored Ginny’s. “You all sound insane!”

Hermione stepped forward, her voice steady, grounding his fraying thoughts. “Harry, we saw you in a vision. A memory. You were ill.”

Tears continued to flow down Ginny’s face as she wiped them away with her sleeves. “You were in so much pain,” she said sadly.

Frustration surged within him like a tide. “I don’t understand. I feel fine! Why are you all conjuring this nonsense?” His gaze darted between his friends, his heart racing with mounting disbelief. “Is this part of a trick? Some sort of tournament task?”

“No,” Ron chimed in, his earnestness clashing with Harry’s stubborn defiance. “This world is a façade, mate. There’s more to it than what you can see.”

“It’s just… not real, Harry!” Ginny whimpered, wiping her tears with the sleeve of her Quidditch robes. “You felt so alone, and we want to help you!”

Harry’s patience wore thin. “You really expect me to believe that? That I’m living in some kind of fake reality?” He scoffed, crossing his arms defiantly. “This isn’t some fairy tale!”

Ron stepped in, his voice earnest as he tried to persuade Harry. “You can’t see the truth because you’re wasting your life only seeing and experiencing what’s in front of you. Sometimes, things aren’t what they seem. This world is just a facade, a false reality. Open your eyes and see the truth, Harry. Ginny didn’t believe us at first, but she now understands.”

Harry’s stubbornness flared as he rejected their words. “I’m not buying any of this. It doesn’t make sense.” Crossing his arms, he stated, “There are too many contradictions in what you three are saying.”

“You don’t always have to understand everything, Harry,” Hermione said, her tone gentle and reassuring. “Sometimes, you just have to accept the truth as it is. Now let us help you.” She reached out to him, hoping to bring clarity to his confused mind.

But Harry wouldn’t let their words penetrate the armour of disbelief he had built around himself. “What do you even know?” he snapped. “I’m doing just fine on my own. I’ve got the snitch to catch!” With that, he felt a surge of anger propel him away from the confused looks directed at him.

Though Harry’s thoughts were clouded, he found comfort in his familiar focus—the Quidditch match. His heart raced anew as he scanned the pitch, searching for the elusive golden snitch. Just then, the snitch shimmered near a distant goalpost, taunting him.

With all his energy and skill, Harry dashed forward, reaching out with outstretched fingers. The snitch danced away but flew right back into his grasp, and as he triumphantly caught it, elation washed over him. He beamed, basking in the glory of victory.

“Have you all completely given up?” he taunted, a grin lighting up his face.

Hermione’s brows furrowed knowingly. “No, Harry. Our aim is to save you.”

“Save me from what? Reveling in my success?” He brushed their concerns aside, irritation bubbling to the surface.

“From a life that isn’t truly yours!” Ron urged, his tone rising with urgency. “You’re so caught up in this moment that you’re blind to what’s really happening.”

Harry’s eyes blazed. “I refuse to fall for this!” he exclaimed, brushing past them as he advanced toward the door leading to their next challenge.

“Harry,” Ginny called desperately. “You need to trust us. You can’t just ignore the truth! You must trust what we’re telling you, or else you’ll die.”

His heart pounded, adrenaline coursing through him. He spun around, fury igniting his features. “Is that a threat, Weasley?”

“No!” She stammered, stepping back as fear flickered across her eyes. “It’s simply the truth.”

Harry leaned closer, pointing a finger inches from her face. “If you don’t stop pestering me, you’ll regret it.” The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy and threatening as he turned abruptly, grasping the doorknob.