FicWad

Molly stood rooted to the spot, one trembling hand pressed against her mouth as she took in the sight before her. Her eyes, wide with disbelief, flicked between Neville and the others, trying to make sense of the impossible.

Percy was at her side, his brow deeply furrowed, his face a mask of confusion and dawning concern. He stared at Neville as though confronted by a riddle that refused to yield.

“Neville?” he said at last, his voice breaking the brittle hush. “What—what are you doing here?”

Beside him, Bill’s gaze narrowed. His wand hand shifted ever so slightly, fingers flexing by his side. There was tension in his stance—readiness, just in case.

Neville hesitated. The weight of their eyes bore down on him, and he shifted uncomfortably, suddenly all too aware of the blood stiffening on George’s shirt.

George’s injuries had looked bad enough from a distance—but up close, they were far worse. A jagged wound split his forehead, the dried edges of it flaking against his temple. His face was bruised and battered, his shirt clinging to him, soaked in dark red. Neville had helped carry him from the edge of the Forest, but the sight of him still turned his stomach.

“Er—hello,” Neville managed, his voice cracking slightly. He rubbed the back of his neck, as if it might somehow conceal the flush rising to his cheeks. “I know this looks… odd.”

Molly lowered her hand slowly, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “Neville, what’s happened? Why are you dressed like—?” She broke off, her gaze darting between him and the crowd, panic beginning to creep into her face. “Where’s Harry?”

Arthur stepped forward, his expression grave. His eyes searched Neville’s face, wary now, voice low but heavy with unspoken worry. “What’s going on? Why would you pretend to be him?”

Neville swallowed, throat dry. His heart hammered against his ribs. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to deceive anyone. It was—it was part of the plan.”

Molly’s frown deepened. “What plan? Whose plan?”

“It was Malfoy’s idea,” Neville said quickly, too quickly, as though trying to shield the truth before they could turn on it. “I—I agreed to it. We all did. But not for ourselves. We just wanted to keep Harry safe.”

At the mention of Malfoy, the mood shifted. Heads turned. Draco stood a short distance behind Neville, composed, but tension clung to him. His jaw was clenched; his hands were clasped tightly behind his back, shoulders rigid.

Kingsley stepped forward then, his presence quiet but grounding. His voice, calm and assured, cut through the unease like steady magic.

“Neville’s telling the truth,” he said. “Harry couldn’t risk being seen—not with Yaxley still watching. The Polyjuice ruse was necessary.”

Arthur didn’t speak at once. His gaze remained on Draco, sharp and assessing. “I understand the risk,” he said slowly. “But this… this was quite the undertaking. How did it come about?”

Draco inclined his head slightly, something calculating flickering in his eyes. “It began when I found Yaxley’s hidden stock of Polyjuice Potion. He wasn’t careful with his enchantments. I… helped myself to a few vials. The idea came then—that we could use it to mislead him. To keep Potter out of sight.”

Molly’s eyes narrowed, her expression unreadable. “And Yaxley never suspected?”

“Not once,” Draco said, a flicker of grim satisfaction in his tone. “He’s not half as clever as he likes to think. I’ve had years of practice getting into places I shouldn’t.”

A few surprised snorts of laughter rippled through the group. Dean, Seamus, and Lee exchanged looks; the tension eased, if only slightly.

Even Percy looked, for a moment, faintly impressed.

Neville allowed himself a faint smile. He could almost picture Malfoy skulking through the dungeons at night, lifting potion vials with silent fingers and committing the Death Eaters’ patrols to memory like a secret map.

“But how did you make the potion work?” Arthur pressed, his voice low but insistent. “You’d have needed… something of Harry’s, wouldn’t you?”

Draco stiffened. For the first time, he looked less composed—an edge of discomfort slipping into his carefully controlled expression.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “We did. It wasn’t ideal, but we had to act quickly. Longbottom collected a few strands of Potter’s hair. I gave them to him.”

Molly gasped, her lips parting in alarm. “You took his hair?”

“It was necessary,” Neville said quickly, stepping in as if to take the blow for both of them. “I didn’t like doing it, but we had no other choice. If we’d waited, Yaxley would have caught on. This was the only way to buy Harry time—to keep him hidden until we were ready.”

A heavy silence settled. The kind that followed hard truths.

On the ground nearby, George shifted with a faint grimace, managing to lift his head. His voice was rough, sandpaper-dry, but held the ghost of humour. “You fooled us all,” he muttered. “Never thought I’d be impressed by a Slytherin plan.”

Draco arched a brow, and a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Coming from a Weasley, I’ll accept that as a sincere compliment.”

“And Neville…” George turned to him, his gaze clearer now despite the pain. “You pulled it off better than I’d have guessed. Bit stiff in the shoulders, though.”

Neville gave a sheepish grin and ducked his head. “I was terrified.”

“You were brave,” said Bill quietly. “That counts for more.”

A strange warmth bloomed in Neville’s chest—something not entirely familiar but not unpleasant. It sat alongside the old doubts, the years of second-guessing. He had done something that mattered. Something real. And not because he had to—but because he chose to. It struck him then that he and Malfoy, unlikely as it seemed, shared a strange kind of kinship: both had taken risks—great ones—for the sake of others.

“I didn’t think it’d be so easy,” he said at last, voice low, with a lopsided, almost rueful smile. “Pretending to be Harry. I just… shut my eyes and tried not to breathe. Played dead.” He gave a small laugh, though it was tight—like a bowstring drawn too far. “Turns out I’m not half as bad at acting as I thought. But I didn’t cast much magic. Didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel like me.”

His eyes drifted toward the trees, scanning the shadows at the forest’s edge, as though still wary of something lurking beyond. There was a weight in his posture—like someone who had crossed a threshold and wasn’t sure what lay on the other side.

Kingsley stepped forward then, his voice low and steady, filled with quiet authority. “Don’t diminish it, Mr Longbottom,” he said. “Most wizards your age—any age—wouldn’t have dared. You put yourself in harm’s way. You didn’t falter. That isn’t just bravery. That’s exceptional.”

A murmur of assent rippled through the group. The members of Dumbledore’s Army closed ranks around him—soft claps on the shoulder, quiet words, a few firm nods. In their eyes, Neville saw pride—not loud or boastful, but solid. The kind that didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be understood.

Bill crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing as they moved between Neville and Draco. “Still doesn’t explain how you got hold of Harry’s hair,” he said, his tone calm but laced with quiet suspicion. “I was careful where he was taken. Only a few knew.”

Draco gave Neville a sidelong glance, one brow lifting slightly.

The meaning was clear.

Your turn.

Neville flushed, heat rising sharply in his cheeks. His hands twisted together in front of him, fingers moving in an anxious, restless rhythm. He could feel their eyes—Bill’s, Percy’s, Mrs Weasley’s—all waiting, all watching. He swallowed hard, forcing the words out. This wasn’t just about explaining. It was about owning what had been done.

“It started after Yaxley made that speech,” he said, his voice tightening at the memory. “When he whipped the Death Eaters up… told them to go after Harry. It was chaos. St Mungo’s was swarmed—people trying to force their way in. I was already there visiting my parents, and I overheard Hermione… She was whispering about needing to move Harry. I didn’t catch the full plan—but Luna…”

“Luna?” Arthur cut in, brows lifting. “Xenophilius’s daughter?”

Neville nodded. A small, fond smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. “Yeah. She figured it out. She’d been to Shell Cottage before,” he added, glancing at Bill. “I think that’s how she knew where to take them.”

Arthur turned where he stood, scanning the gathered faces with sudden urgency. “Where is she?”

“She’s with them,” said Slughorn quietly, stepping forward from the fringe of the crowd. His robes were slightly askew, and a sombre weariness clung to him. “She wouldn’t leave. Insisted on staying.”

Arthur went still. Something shifted in his face—like the bottom had dropped out of the world beneath him.

“Harry… and Ron—?”

“They’re still unconscious,” Slughorn replied gently, cutting off the question before it could fully form. He turned to Molly, his tone softening even further. “I’m sorry, Molly. They haven’t stirred.”

Molly stared at him, eyes wide, arms wrapped tightly round herself as though trying to stop her own heart from breaking. “It’s been hours,” she whispered. “Surely—surely they would have—”

“I believe whatever they’re facing—magical or otherwise—goes deeper than any of us know,” Slughorn said heavily. “Their minds are still battling. That’s why they haven’t returned.”

The clearing fell utterly still. Even the trees seemed to hold their breath.

From behind them, Hagrid’s voice rumbled out, rough-edged and low. “They’ll pull through, though… won’t they?” His eyes were rimmed red, his enormous shoulders hunched as though the fear was too much to carry. “Harry, Ron, Hermione… Ginny… they’ll make it.”

Slughorn met his gaze. For a moment, he said nothing. But something passed between them—unspoken, solid. A truth no one wanted to name.

Hagrid gave a slow, resolute nod, jaw clenched. It was an answer to himself more than anyone else. He understood. They all did.

Hope was all that remained.

Around them, the remnants of Dumbledore’s Army shifted, their voices low, murmurs cracked by worry. Neville caught fragments—Ginny’s name, Hermione’s, someone saying, “They’ve got to wake up.” Their loyalty held firm, but it was fraying—thin with waiting, sore with fear.

Neville stood among them, heart sinking. He looked down at his robes—still stained, the last traces of Harry’s face now long gone, faded like the end of a spell. The fear hadn’t gone with it. If anything, it had only sharpened. But he stood straighter now.

Because even here, in the thick of dread, he knew what he’d done. And he would do it again—without hesitation—if it meant giving them even the smallest chance to come back.

They can’t be gone.

The thought tolled through his head like a bell—slow, cold, unrelenting. His fingers slipped into his pocket, curling tightly around the enchanted Galleon still warm from use. It pulsed faintly in his palm—alive. Real. A reminder of what they’d all fought for.

But the warmth of it felt almost cruel against the chill that clung to him. What if they didn’t wake? What if thiswas how it ended?

The silence pressed down like a weight.

No Harry. No Hermione. No Ron.

Just the aching, hollow space where their voices used to be.

Kingsley’s voice broke the quiet, calm but carrying a fatigue that clung to every syllable. “It may be best if everyone returns home for now,” he said, addressing what remained of Dumbledore’s Army. His shoulders were squared, his bearing as composed as ever, but the strain was clear in his face. “It’s been a long night. I’m deeply grateful for what you’ve done. We’ll regroup in the morning.”

At once, protests rose around him.

“We can’t leave now!”

“We’ll wait till they wake!”

“There’s no way we can rest like this!”

The words flew sharp and fast. The DA stood their ground, faces drawn with exhaustion but alight with something fiercer than fear—loyalty. They would not leave Harry. Or Ron. Or Hermione. Or Ginny. Not now. Not ever.

Kingsley raised a hand, and the noise ebbed away. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler, but no less firm.

“I understand. Truly. But staying here won’t help them. They’re in capable hands. And the best thing you can do for them now is be ready when they wake. We’ll send word the moment anything changes.”

He turned to Draco then, tone brisk. “Come with me. We need to report to the ministry.”

Draco nodded once, short and sharp. He looked exhausted—not simply from lack of rest but from the weight of what he’d done. Of what it had cost him. He said nothing as he stepped forward, but something passed between him and Kingsley nonetheless—muted understanding, heavy with implication.

One by one, DA members began to Disapparate, sharp cracks echoing through the trees like the tail end of a storm. Soon only a few remained: Kingsley, Draco, Neville, Slughorn, Hagrid, and the Weasleys.

Then it happened.

A sudden flare of heat pulsed in Neville’s pocket.

His breath caught. “It’s Luna!” he said, yanking the Galleon free. The gold shimmered faintly in the moonlight, the tiny letters across its surface shifting before his eyes.

Everyone turned to him at once.

“What is it?” Arthur asked, stepping close. His face was lined with worry, more deeply carved than it had been an hour ago.

“I—I’m not sure,” Neville stammered, turning the coin in his palm. “She said she’d let me know if anything changed. It might be about Harry. Or Ron. Or—” His throat closed around the rest of their names.

“Could they have woken?” Percy asked, voice brittle with hope, eyes flicking between Neville and the coin.

Kingsley placed a firm hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Draco and I must return to the Ministry,” he said quietly. “But please—keep us informed. Whatever the news may be.”

“We will,” Arthur said with a nod, already turning towards the rest of the family. “Some of us should go back to Shell Cottage—see for ourselves. Molly, we ought to take George to St Mungo’s.”

George, leaning heavily on Bill and Percy, gave a tired groan. “I think I’ll live, Dad. Let’s go to Shell Cottage first. If I drop, you can haul me off to the hospital after.”

Molly’s mouth tightened with worry. “Are you certain, dear?” she asked, brushing a hand gently over his injured arm.

“These scratches won’t take down a Weasley,” George said with a crooked grin. “You’ll have to give me a bit more credit, Mum.”

She huffed, part exasperation, part relief, and cradled his cheek for a moment. “We’ll go to St Mungo’s afterwards. No arguments.”

“Aye, aye,” George replied with a lazy salute.

Just before Disapparating, Draco paused. He turned back, eyes shadowed but steady.

“Give my regards to Harry,” he said, voice clipped but—somehow—sincere.

Neville blinked. It might have been the first time he’d heard Malfoy say Harry’s name like that—no malice, no superiority. Just quiet acknowledgement. He glanced at the Weasleys, wondering if they’d noticed. If they had, none of them said a word. They simply nodded as Draco vanished with a soft crack beside the minister.

Still holding the Galleon, Neville turned to the group. His heart thudded wildly in his chest. “Can I come with you?” he asked, quieter now. The words were small, uncertain—but there was something behind them. Something rooted. Grown.

Bill looked at him, and his smile was soft—warm and edged with something very near pride.

“Of course you can,” he said. “Harry’s going to want to see you. Especially after he hears how you pulled off the impersonation stunt of the year.”

Neville flushed a deep scarlet, a sheepish laugh catching in his throat despite the tension that still clung to the air. The thought of seeing Harry again—of telling him we made it—was both terrifying and brilliant.

He didn’t know what he’d say first.

Only that he would say it.

And that they would be there to hear it.

The waves lapped gently against the shore of Shell Cottage, their quiet rhythm like a lullaby whispered to the sand. Over the sea, the moon hung high and bright, casting a silvery light across the sleeping world. Inside the cottage, Luna Lovegood stood by the window, her long blonde hair falling down her back like strands of moonlight. Her eyes—wide, luminous, and searching—mirrored the starlit sky she so often watched. Though everything around her was still, her thoughts were anything but.

It had been hours since Slughorn had left. The candles scattered throughout the cottage flickered faintly, casting trembling golden shadows across the walls. Luna had wandered slowly from room to room, drawn by the light—and by the sleeping figures of her friends.

In the largest bedroom, four beds stood side by side: Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny lay motionless upon them, like soldiers finally granted rest. They looked peaceful from a distance—but Luna had been watching closely. She’d seen the twitch of Harry’s hand, the subtle furrow in Ginny’s brow, and the restless stirrings that hinted at dreams that were not entirely kind.

She wanted to believe they were healing. But doubt crept in at the edges of her mind like the sea mist rolling off the dunes.

Her thoughts drifted back to earlier that evening—when Neville had contacted her. He’d sounded breathless, rattled. The moment he explained what had happened, she’d agreed to meet him at the Ministry without hesitation. The worry in his voice had chased away any hesitation.

When she arrived in the ministry’s grand atrium, she’d spotted him at once. He stood near Draco Malfoy and Minister Shacklebolt, his face drawn and pale, his posture stiff with urgency. The air around them had felt heavy—like a moment just before lightning struck.

Neville had explained quickly—his voice low, tight with frustration. He told her how he’d tried to remember where Harry had gone into hiding. How he’d overheard fragments from Hermione, but the place itself had slipped from his memory.

Luna had listened carefully. Then she’d simply known.

Shell Cottage.

She had been there once, long ago—rescued from Malfoy Manor by Dobby, taken here to recover before the final battle. A place of refuge. A place where quiet could become strength again.

Now, standing once more at the edge of that same room, surrounded by sleeping friends, that memory gave her something to hold onto.

Ron stirred first.

Luna stepped softly to his side, crouching by his bed. The shadows beneath his eyes were dark, and his skin was pale and drawn. She leaned forward and spoke, her voice a whisper on the air.

“Ron?”

His eyelids fluttered, confused and sluggish. “Luna?” His voice was hoarse, as though he hadn’t used it in days.

She offered him a gentle smile. “Yes. You’re the first to wake.”

He groaned as he sat up slowly, moving like every muscle in his body had turned against him. His eyes flicked towards the beds beside him, searching. “Hermione? Ginny?”

“They’re right here,” Luna said softly. “Still sleeping. But I think they’re beginning to stir.”

As if in response, Ginny shifted beneath her blanket, turning her head towards the voices. A moment later, Hermione stirred too, blinking slowly, hair tangled and eyes wide with disorientation.

“Ron?” Hermione’s voice cracked as she spoke his name, as if the sound of it helped her find herself again. She pushed herself upright too quickly and swayed where she sat, but her eyes found his and clung to them.

“I’m here,” Ron murmured, rough but steady. His hand reached for hers without thought, and she caught it at once.

Ginny sat up next, her face dazed. “What’s going on? Where are we?” she whispered, her voice full of unease.

“You’re safe now,” Luna said. “You’re home.”

Ginny’s eyes darted around the room, searching each face, then landed on Ron’s, then Hermione’s, then Luna’s.

“Is this real?” she asked, trembling. “Are you real?”

Luna gave a soft laugh and tilted her head, her voice airy and kind. “As real as moonlight. But if you mean whether this is really happening—yes, it is. You’re back. You’re safe.”

Hermione blinked hard, tears welling in her eyes. She tried to fight them, tried to stay composed, but her lips quivered as she asked, “How long have we been asleep?”

“Only a few hours,” Luna replied gently. “You’ve all been through such a lot. We didn’t know how long it would take. Or if you’d…” She faltered, pressing her lips together. She couldn’t finish the thought. She wouldn’t.

They exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes still glassy with the fog of waking. Luna’s calm presence only made their disorientation more pronounced. She stood close by, steady and quiet, her gaze drifting over each of their faces like moonlight skimming the surface of water.

Leaning in slightly, she spoke in a voice gentle and sure, as though coaxing them back into the world. “What do you remember? Has the ritual—?”

“The ritual!” Ron burst out, the word landing like a dropped stone in a pool of silence. His face lit up with sudden clarity, the grogginess lifting slightly, though confusion still lingered behind his eyes. The memories came rushing back—not clearly, but in sharp, disjointed fragments.

Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth. “So we’re back…” she whispered, her voice brittle. Her fingers trembled where they touched her lips, as if afraid that speaking the words might undo them.

“Yes,” Luna replied softly. “You’ve only just come to.”

But even as that truth settled, their eyes were already drawn to the bed across the room. The only one still untouched by movement.

Harry.

Ginny’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart began to pound, loud and hard, as she moved towards him—each step heavy with dread and love in equal measure. “Why isn’t he awake?” she asked, her voice catching. She reached out, brushing the hair from his forehead with trembling fingers. The tenderness of the gesture made his stillness feel unbearable. “We finished it, didn’t we? He should be—”

“We must’ve done it,” Ron cut in quickly. “We’re awake. That’s got to mean something.”

“But why hasn’t Harry woken up?” Ginny pressed, her voice cracking under the weight of panic. “If it worked… he should be with us. With me.”

No one answered. The silence that followed felt leaden and oppressive.

Hermione gripped the edge of her blanket tightly, as if anchoring herself. “Let’s think,” she said, voice thin but determined. “What’s the last thing we remember? Before we woke up here?”

They fell quiet again, each groping through the fog of memory for something solid.

“I only remember fragments,” Hermione admitted at last. Her brow was furrowed, her face drawn. “There was… silver light. And mirrors. But not normal ones. I don’t know what they meant.”

“I saw things too,” Ginny said quietly. “But it was all blurry. Like I was underwater.”

“There was some kind of task,” Ron added, frowning. “Something important we had to do. But I can’t remember what.”

Hermione closed her eyes, willing the pieces into place. “There was a golden potion. And mirrors, yes. But they weren’t just reflecting. They were showing us… something. Someone.”

Luna tilted her head. Her tone remained gentle, curious more than alarmed. “Were you dreaming, do you think? Or did it feel like something else?”

Hermione met her gaze. “It wasn’t a dream,” she said firmly. “It felt real. Like we were somewhere else entirely. Another realm, maybe. I can’t explain it.”

Her eyes drifted to Harry, and her voice dropped. “But Harry was there. I’m sure of it.”

“I remember too,” Ginny murmured. Her voice had steadied slightly. “He was there. But… he wasn’t quite right.”

“No,” Ron agreed, his frown deepening. “He was… different. Off. Like he wasn’t really himself. Cold. Arrogant.”

“Like Malfoy,” Ginny said, her voice tight. “Not exactly, but… something in the way he looked at us. Spoke to us. It wasn’t Harry. Or it was, but… twisted somehow.”

Luna’s eyes narrowed, the name striking something within her. “Malfoy?”

They turned to her. Her face hadn’t changed much—still dreamy, still composed—but something beneath it had shifted. There was tension there now. A quiet kind of dread.

Ginny nodded slowly. “I can’t say for certain. But it felt like… like someone else was inside him. Or that he’d become someone else entirely.”

Luna’s expression darkened. “Another Harry?” she repeated faintly.

Ginny didn’t answer at once. She tilted her head, her gaze distant. “Not another Harry, perhaps,” she said at last. “Maybe… another version of him. Something brought forward by the ritual itself.”

“Or something that was hiding in him all along,” Ron muttered, a shiver running through him. “Something we didn’t notice until it was too late.”

Ginny’s fists clenched at her sides. “But what does that mean? Is he stuck? Is that why he hasn’t come back?”

Luna met her eyes, calm as always. “I don’t think what you saw was imagined,” she said softly. “I think it was real. In some way.”

Hermione studied her, trying to find reason in Luna’s certainty. “But how do you know that?”

Luna gave a small, enigmatic smile. “It’s just a feeling. Like when I know there are Nargles in the attic. You can’t always see something to be sure of it. Sometimes, you just… know.”

Ron let out a weary groan and rubbed his hands down his face. “So we didn’t dream it,” he said dully. “But what did we do? Did the ritual actually work? Or did we end up dragging Harry somewhere he can’t get back from?”

The question lingered, curling and choking in their silence.

Hermione’s arms wrapped tightly around her body. Her voice was low, grim. “It felt real. All of it. But what if it meant nothing? What if we didn’t save him at all?”

None of them spoke. The only sound came from the sea outside the cottage—the gentle hush of waves brushing the shore, as if echoing their doubt.

Ron broke the silence at last, his voice hesitant. “I think… we must’ve completed some sort of tasks,” he said slowly, squinting, trying to focus through the haze of memory. “But just before I woke up… I remember bars. Like we were locked up. Imprisoned.”

At his words, Luna’s eyes widened slightly. She didn’t move, but a ripple of unease passed through her. “Bars?” she echoed softly. “Were you doing anything unusual before that?”

Hermione shook her head, frowning. “No… I don’t think so. But the feeling was real.” She rubbed her arms, as though still cold. “I could feel the barrier. It was freezing.”

Silence fell again, heavier this time.

Ginny sat back down beside Harry and reached for his hand. It was still warm, but that only made his stillness feel worse. Her voice trembled as she stroked her thumb gently over his knuckles. “If we were imprisoned… Then what were we supposed to do in there? What was the point of it all?”

Hermione let out a slow breath, her posture sagging. “Something happened. Something important. I know it did. But it’s like the memory’s just out of reach. Like I’m trying to remember a dream that’s already slipping away.”

Ron rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you think that was the ritual? Being trapped like that? Maybe it was meant to free us?”

Ginny looked up sharply. “But if that’s true—and if it worked—” her voice caught, “—then why isn’t Harry awake?”

Ron’s breath stuttered. “You don’t think… we failed it, do you?”

She didn’t answer at once. Her gaze fell to Harry, her hands trembling where they rested over his chest.

The silence returned, thick and suffocating.

And the sea kept whispering outside.

Ron turned to Hermione, searching her face for something—logic, reassurance, hope. She looked even paler than before, lips pressed into a tight line.

“I don’t feel anything wrong,” Ron said quickly, grasping at the only certainty he could find. “Harry said he could tell when it went wrong last time, remember? He said it felt like something was burning inside him. I don’t feel that.”

“I don’t either,” Hermione admitted, though her voice trembled. “But… if the ritual failed, maybe the effects aren’t immediate.”

By the flickering candlelight, Ginny’s eyes filled with tears. “I refuse to believe we’re only awake because it failed,” she said, her voice tight but full of steel. “It had to mean something.” She leaned over Harry, pressing her fingers gently to his wrist. Her breath caught as she waited.

A long moment passed.

Then she let it out—relief tangled with dread. “His pulse is steady.”

Ron and Hermione both watched her, silent and stricken. Hermione curled inwards, hugging her knees to her chest, staring into nothing. Ron fidgeted beside her, twisting the edge of his sleeve between his fingers.

Then suddenly, Hermione’s eyes lit with purpose. She sat up so quickly the blanket slid from her shoulders and pooled at her feet. “I need to look in the Anima book,” she said, breathless with urgency. “If there’s anything—anything—about what comes after a ritual like this, it’ll be in there.”

Before she could turn away, Ron glanced at Luna, his voice taut with unease. “How long’s it been? Since it started? Since we went under?”

Luna blinked slowly, then looked to the window, as if reading the stars. “Only a few hours,” she said softly. “I arrived not long ago. Neville and Minister Shacklebolt asked me to stay and watch over you.”

The three of them exchanged startled glances—Hermione froze mid-step, Ginny frowned, and Ron gave Luna a wary look.

“Watch over us?” Hermione asked slowly. “Why? What were you expecting to happen?”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then, as though waking from a trance, they all turned and noticed the silence that surrounded the cottage. No footsteps. No voices. Not even the creak of floorboards or clatter of teacups. Just the hush of waves beyond the window.

“It’s too quiet,” Ron said, rising. “Far too quiet for a house full of Weasleys.”

Ginny narrowed her eyes. “Luna… where is everyone? Where are Mum and Dad? The others?”

Luna turned to face them fully. Her usual dreamy expression had dimmed into something quieter. Still soft, still calm—but tinged now with weight. When she spoke, it was with terrible gentleness.

“Your brother George has been taken.”

The words dropped like a stone.

The candle beside Harry faltered, its flame guttering low before flaring again.

“What?” Ron leapt to his feet, his face draining of colour. “What do you mean, taken?!”

Ginny stood too, her voice rising. “Kidnapped? By who? When?”

Hermione pressed a hand to her chest, breath shallow with shock. “Luna, please—what happened?”

“They’ve gone into the Forbidden Forest,” Luna said quietly. “Neville. The Minister. Your family. They’re out there now—looking for George. And trying to hold off what’s coming.”

Ron’s fists clenched. “Then we need to go. Now. We can’t just sit here—”

“Wait,” Luna said, her voice firmer than they’d heard it all night. “It’s too late to rush into the forest now. It’s dark. It’s dangerous. And none of you have fully recovered.”

“But they’re in danger!” Ginny cried.

“They are,” Luna said softly. “That’s why the minister made a plan. He and Neville worked quickly. They set protections in place. They prepared for the worst.” Her eyes moved between them. “But they also knew you’d need time. That’s why they left me here. To protect you.”

Luna’s eyes glimmered with quiet intensity.

“How can you be certain it worked?” Ron asked, his voice taut with doubt. The question sliced through the fragile calm, edged with fear disguised as scepticism. “What if the plan failed?”

Hermione, who had been watching Luna closely, her gaze sharp and unrelenting, cut in. “You worked on this with Neville?”

“And the minister,” Luna said, her voice soft but steady. A flicker of hope touched her expression as she reached into her cloak and drew out a shining Galleon. Its surface shimmered faintly in the candlelight, still warm from recent use. “I promised Neville I’d send word the moment you woke…”

Ron stared at it, the faint magic glinting in the metal grounding him more than comforting. “So that’s it?” he said, frustration bubbling to the surface. “We’re just meant to wait while George is out there somewhere—hurt or worse? I should be out looking for him, not sitting here doing nothing.”

Ginny said nothing, but her jaw tightened, the silence brittle and trembling.

“I understand how you feel,” Luna said gently. Her voice, calm despite everything, took Ron by surprise. “But if the others are already in the forest and if the plan’s working, then we can’t rush in and risk making it worse.”

“Trust?” Ron echoed, bitter. He turned away, staring out of the window as if the night might offer answers. “I don’t even know what’s real any more.”

Luna opened her mouth—perhaps ready to offer one of her usual cryptic comforts—but before she could speak, the air cracked with a series of sharp bangs.

They all froze.

“That’s people Apparating,” Ginny whispered, her heart suddenly hammering. “It has to be.”

They moved as one—feet carrying them forward before thought could catch up. Hope surged in their chests, wild and unsteady. The front door creaked open to the cold, and in the darkness beyond, figures emerged. Lantern light bobbed between them, casting flickers of gold on faces—mud-streaked, exhausted, but achingly familiar.

Luna’s breath caught. “Neville,” she whispered.

He led the group—his cloak stained with forest muck, his hair wind-tossed, but his eyes alight with relief. And just behind him—

“George!” Ron’s voice cracked.

George was half-limping, supported by Bill on one side and Percy on the other. Pale, bruised, and dragging his feet, he still wore that crooked grin—worn at the edges, but unmistakably George.

Ron bolted forward, the others close behind. There were no words, just a surge of motion—arms, sobs, hands clinging tight as if afraid to let go.

Molly collapsed into Ginny, her hands fluttering across her daughter’s face. “Oh, thank Merlin. Thank Merlin. My girl—my darlings—you’re safe,” she sobbed, kissing Ginny’s forehead again and again.

Arthur followed more slowly, quieter but no less moved. He ran a hand through Ron’s hair before pulling him into a rare, tight embrace. For a moment, the danger, the fear, the waiting—all of it dissolved into the warmth of reunion.

Then a shadow filled the doorway.

“There yeh are!” boomed Hagrid’s voice. He grinned wide, though his eyes glistened and his beard was damp with dew. “All in one piece, thank Merlin.”

Slughorn tottered in after him, mopping his brow with a silk handkerchief. He lowered himself into the nearest chair with a theatrical sigh, waving off offers of help.

Neville stepped inside last. He paused just beyond the threshold, his eyes finding Hermione’s first. “You’re really back,” he said, almost to himself.

Hermione nodded. Her tears were still unshed, glimmering on her lashes.

Ron helped lower George onto the sofa, flinching as his brother winced when his side met the cushions. “What happened?” Ron asked, his voice thick with emotion. “What really happened out there?”

“It was chaos,” said Bill, tugging off his gloves with unsteady hands. His eyes were wide, pupils still blown from the adrenaline. “Absolute madness. We walked straight into an ambush. Yaxley was waiting—but… Draco Malfoy saved us.”

“Malfoy?” Ginny echoed, blinking as if she hadn’t heard properly. “That Malfoy?”

Neville stepped forward, nodding once. “He knew what was coming. He told the minister. Helped us lure the Death Eaters into the forest—into the traps we’d laid. Spells, concealments, centaur support. It was all planned.”

Hermione stared at him. “Malfoy helped coordinate a counterattack?”

Neville’s mouth twitched, a reluctant kind of admiration in his expression. “He did more than that. He let me take Polyjuice—pose as Harry. So they’d come after me instead. And they did. They thought they had him. We pulled them deep into the woods, right into the Aurors’ perimeter.”

Molly and Arthur sat on either side of George, who was sipping something from a flask Slughorn had handed him. Bill hovered behind, inspecting George’s torn sleeve with a grim look, while Percy murmured something under his breath, brow furrowed.

“And you won?” said Ron, cautiously.

Neville gave a lopsided smile. “We survived. That’s not nothing. The Death Eaters are scattered. We even managed to take Yaxley.”

A quiet buzz spread through the room—disbelief, astonishment… And beneath it all, the stirring embers of hope.

Hermione, for the first time in what felt like days, allowed herself a small, genuine smile.

“Where’s Harry?”

The question came from Hagrid. It wasn’t loud, but it cut clean through the fragile mood like a gust of cold air. Conversation dropped. Heads turned.

He was standing by the hearth now, his massive frame shadowed by firelight, eyes filled not with joy—but dread.

“Harry should be here,” said Percy quietly, adjusting his glasses, though it did nothing to disguise the tightness in his voice. “He should be celebrating with us. We wouldn’t have made it this far without him.”

“I kept thinking about what I’d say to him,” Neville added, his smile fading fast. “How we did it. How it worked. I—I suppose I forgot, just for a moment, that he’s not…”

His voice trailed off.

The hush thickened. All eyes slowly turned to Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. They hadn’t spoken. They hadn’t moved. Ginny stared at her hands in her lap. Ron’s jaw was tight. Hermione’s eyes were closed, her brow drawn as if she were steeling herself.

Luna watched them closely, feeling the weight in the room settle. Their silence was louder than any answer. A hollow sort of ache pulsed behind her ribs. She opened her mouth—then shut it again.

It was Hermione who finally spoke. She looked up, voice low but firm. “Harry’s still unconscious.”

A sharp breath swept through the room.

“But… why?” asked Molly, her voice trembling. “Why just Harry?”

“We don’t know,” Ginny said, her voice barely audible. Her fingers dug into the fabric of her robes. Her eyes were shining, though no tears fell. “Everyone else woke up. Except him.”

Slughorn’s brow creased, the jovial glint in his eye giving way to something far more serious. “Is it possible,” he asked slowly, “that the ritual was flawed? That it… affected him differently?”

“We’ve considered that,” said Hermione, though her voice wavered. “But there was nothing in the incantation to suggest Harry should’ve reacted differently. Still…” She glanced towards the doorway where Ginny had disappeared. “Something’s wrong. I can feel it. And I’m starting to doubt everything we once believed.”

“Doubt?” Hagrid repeated, stepping forward. His boots thudded heavily against the floorboards. “What d’yeh mean, Hermione? What’s happenin’? He’s a tough lad, Harry. Always has been. He’ll pull through, won’t he?”

“We don’t remember,” Ron said quietly. “Not the end of it. Not what happened just before we woke up. Nothing. It’s like we were yanked out of one place and dropped straight into this one.”

“That’s not normal,” said Bill, sharply. He crossed the room in two strides. “Have you noticed anything else? Pain? Confusion? Any… symptoms?”

Ron and Hermione glanced at one another, then shook their heads in silence. The air between them seemed to tighten, as if something fragile hung there, ready to snap.

“Have you looked in the Anima book?” Slughorn pressed, his voice rising with urgency. “Surely there must be something—some clue.”

Hermione’s mouth tightened with guilt. “We haven’t checked it since we got back,” she admitted, already turning to retrieve the heavy, weathered book from the table. Her hands trembled slightly as she opened it, fingers sweeping over brittle parchment as she scanned page after page.

The others waited in stillness. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to quieten.

Minutes passed. Hermione’s brow furrowed deeper with each turn of the page. At last, she slammed the book shut, the sound sharp in the hush.

“There’s nothing,” she said bitterly. “No mention of this. No warnings. No fallback. It’s as if this was never meant to happen.”

“There has to be something we’ve missed,” said Ron, hovering beside her.

“We’ve looked,” Hermione replied, shaking her head. “Every theory, every translation. Dead ends.”

The room fell quiet.

Then Ginny’s voice cut through, raw and cracking. “Then why won’t he wake up?”

They turned to her. She stood in the doorway, her face pale, eyes glassy. Her gaze moved slowly from face to face before settling on her mother.

“He’s breathing. He’s alive. But it’s like… something’s holding him back. Maybe he’s trapped. Maybe he’s fighting something in his mind. And we just can’t see it.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, trembling with unshed tears.

“And if he can’t find his way back… what if we lose him? What if we already have?”

No one spoke.

Without another word, Ginny turned and left the room.

Luna followed, saying nothing. Her heart ached with the weight of what hadn’t been said.

The next room was dim, the light low and flickering. Behind the door, the world felt distant—like they had stepped outside of time.

Harry lay there, pale and still. The only sound was the soft, steady rhythm of his breath.

Ginny knelt beside him, took his hand gently in hers, and traced the lines of his palm with a touch that barely stirred the skin. Her fingers lingered, as if hoping to wake something sleeping.

Luna paused in the doorway, her gaze fixed on him. She saw not the stillness of rest but a different kind of silence. She pictured him elsewhere—walking through tall grass under a warm sun, somewhere untouched by pain, where no battle followed.

But something inside her twisted.

This wasn’t sleep.

He wasn’t resting.

He was lost.

And this time, wherever Harry was—they couldn’t follow.