FicWad

Molly stood frozen, one trembling hand pressed against her mouth as she stared in stunned silence. Her wide, disbelieving eyes moved from Neville to the others, then back again, as though the image might rearrange itself into something sensible if she just looked hard enough. But nothing shifted. Nothing explained the impossible.

Percy was beside her, his features drawn in a grim line, brow furrowed in puzzlement. His eyes locked on Neville as though he were some unsolvable riddle scribbled in a forgotten tongue. “Neville?” he said at last, his voice barely a breath but breaking the brittle silence. “What… what are you doing here?”

Bill, just behind them, had not spoken at all. His gaze sharpened, the way it did in dangerous moments. His wand hand twitched at his side—only slightly, but enough. There was a tension in his frame that hadn’t been there a moment ago. A quiet readiness.

Neville flinched under their stares. He looked down quickly; the weight of blood on his hands—figuratively and not—suddenly unbearable. The shirt he wore, George’s shirt, was dark with it. His eyes flicked to George’s still form. Up close, the injuries were even more grotesque than they’d seemed from afar. A vicious gash carved its way across his forehead, dried blood flaking near his temple. His face was mottled with bruises, his lip split, and his breathing shallow.

“Er—hullo,” Neville said weakly, his voice cracking in the middle. He scratched the back of his neck. “I know this must look… well. It looks bad.”

Molly slowly lowered her hand, her voice no louder than a whisper. “Neville… what’s happened? Why are you dressed like—?” She broke off, her eyes scanning the crowd again, something rising in her expression—panic. “Where’s Harry?”

Arthur stepped forward now, slower than the rest, but steadier. His face was grave. He studied Neville closely, his voice low and careful. “What’s going on here, son? Why would you be pretending to be him?”

Neville’s mouth was dry. The words clawed at his throat as though reluctant to come. “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. “Truly. I didn’t want to trick anyone. It—it was all part of the plan.”

“Plan?” Molly echoed sharply, her brows drawn together. “What plan? Whose plan?”

Neville hesitated. “It was Malfoy’s idea,” he said, too quickly, as though trying to outrun the judgement he feared would follow. “But we agreed to it—all of us. It wasn’t about us. It was to protect Harry.”

At the sound of that name—Malfoy—a subtle shift passed through the gathering. Attention turned. Draco stood not far behind Neville, his expression unreadable, though a tightness in his jaw betrayed the tension held beneath. His hands were clasped behind his back, spine straight, posture formal. But his shoulders were rigid, braced for the inevitable storm.

Kingsley stepped forward at last, his voice calm and authoritative, grounding the mounting unease with its steadiness. “Neville’s telling the truth. Harry couldn’t risk being seen—not with Yaxley still watching his every move. The Polyjuice ruse was necessary. It gave us time and cover.”

Arthur didn’t respond straightaway. His gaze remained fixed on Draco, slow and scrutinising. “I understand the risk,” he said finally. “But this… this was a bold gambit. Tell me, Draco—how did it come about?”

Draco inclined his head slightly, the movement small but deliberate. “It started when I discovered Yaxley’s private stores. He was careless with his enchantments. Sloppy, really. I helped myself to a few vials of Polyjuice from his collection.”

There was a murmur in the crowd.

“The idea came to me then,” Draco went on, eyes steady. “We’d keep Potter hidden, keep him free to move without being watched. If Yaxley thought he was under our thumb, we could control what he saw—and what he didn’t.”

Molly’s eyes narrowed. Her expression had settled into something unreadable. “And Yaxley never suspected?”

“Not once,” Draco replied. A faint flicker of grim satisfaction passed across his features. “He’s far less clever than he believes. And I’ve spent years going places I wasn’t supposed to be.”

A ripple of dry laughter moved through the group. Dean nudged Seamus, who grinned despite himself. Even Lee gave a brief snort of approval. The tension cracked just enough to breathe again.

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.

Percy gave a slight nod, his lips twitching faintly at the corners. “I admit… that’s rather impressive.”

Neville shifted, relief breaking through the nervous stiffness in his shoulders. “He really did help, you know. More than I expected.” He glanced at Draco, his tone edged with the slightest surprise. “He could’ve walked away. He didn’t.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Let’s not make a habit of giving me credit. I’m sure it’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Bit late for that,” muttered George from where he stood, barely conscious but dry as ever.

Molly gave a shuddering exhale—half-laugh, half-sob—and moved to stand by George’s side. She placed her hand gently on his forehead, brushing blood-matted hair away. “You’re alright, my darling,” she murmured. “You’re alright now.”

George’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of her voice. “Bit of a mess, Mum,” he rasped, his smile lopsided and weak. “But I’ve had worse. Think.”

“But how did you manage it, Draco?” Arthur asked quietly, though there was no mistaking the urgency in his tone. He leaned forward slightly, brows drawn together beneath his thinning red hair. “The Polyjuice Potion—surely you’d have needed… something of Harry’s? Hair, at the very least.”

There was a pause—brief, but telling.

Draco’s composure faltered for the first time. His chin lifted a fraction higher, though it did little to disguise the flicker of discomfort that passed over his features. He glanced away, then back again, as though measuring the worth of the truth before surrendering it.

“Yes,” he said at last, his voice quieter than before, the syllables edged with reluctance. “We did. It wasn’t ideal—but we didn’t have the luxury of waiting. Longbottom acquired what we needed. A few strands of Potter’s hair. I handed them over.”

Molly gasped. The sound broke from her lips before she could stifle it. Her hand flew to her chest, eyes wide and aghast. “You took his hair?”

Neville stepped forward at once, as though instinctively placing himself between Malfoy and the backlash. “It wasn’t like that,” he said quickly, his voice firm but shaded with guilt. “It wasn’t something we wanted to do—it was something we had to do. If we’d hesitated, even for an hour, Yaxley might’ve seen through everything. We needed to keep Harry hidden. That was the point. The rest of it—my part in it—it didn’t matter.”

A silence followed.

“Well,” George croaked, his voice rough as gravel, “you fooled us all. I’ll give you that. Never thought I’d be congratulating a Slytherin on a ruse worth writing home about.”

Draco’s mouth twitched. He tilted his head in acknowledgement, the faintest trace of a smirk curling one corner of his lips. “Coming from a Weasley,” he drawled, “I’ll choose to take that as high praise.”

George grunted in what might have been a laugh and turned his gaze on Neville. His eyes, though tired, had regained their clarity. “And you, Longbottom—blimey. You pulled it off better than I’d have guessed. A bit rigid in the shoulders, though. You walk like you’re expecting a rogue Bludger.”

Neville flushed slightly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I was terrified.”

“You were brave,” said Bill, speaking for the first time in several minutes. His voice was quiet, solemn. “That counts for more.”

A flicker of something stirred in Neville’s chest—warmth, unfamiliar but solid. It settled in beside the old doubts, the ghosts of years spent stumbling in Harry’s shadow. He had done something real. Not because he’d been told to—but because he had chosen it. It struck him then, strange and sudden, that he and Malfoy—two boys from opposite ends of the same war—had risked the same thing for the same cause. However unlike they might have seemed, in that moment, there was no mistaking the common ground between them.

“I didn’t think it’d be so hard,” Neville said at last, a lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. “Pretending to be Harry, I mean. I just… shut my eyes and tried not to breathe. Played dead, mostly.” His laugh was short. “Turns out I’m not entirely hopeless at acting. But I didn’t use much magic. I couldn’t. Didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel like me.”

His gaze wandered to the edge of the trees—dark, still, and somehow watchful. As though something unseen lingered just beyond the reach of the firelight. His shoulders tensed without meaning to, the echo of fear not yet fully gone.

Kingsley took a step forward. The deep timbre of his voice cut through the quiet. “Don’t diminish it, Mr Longbottom. Most wizards wouldn’t have dared. You stood where few would choose to stand, and you didn’t waver. That’s not just courage. That’s leadership.”

A soft murmur ran through the circle of people gathered—quiet assent, a few hands on Neville’s shoulders, subtle nods of approval. The members of Dumbledore’s Army closed around him—not with fanfare, but with something sturdier. Pride, shared and unspoken.

But Bill remained still. Arms crossed over his chest, his eyes moved from Neville to Draco, then back again. “It still doesn’t explain how you got hold of Harry’s hair in the first place,” he said, his tone steady but edged with suspicion. “I was careful where he was taken. Only a handful of people knew.”

Draco gave a small shrug, then glanced sidelong at Neville—one brow arched, the message clear.

Your turn.

Neville stiffened. The heat crept up his neck in a slow, relentless crawl. He could feel the eyes on him now—Bill’s, Percy’s, Mrs Weasley’s, and others besides. Waiting. Expecting. He hesitated, twisting his fingers together in front of him, his voice catching in his throat.

But then he drew a breath.

“It started after that speech,” he said, his voice low. “When Yaxley called on them to hunt Harry down. It was chaos—St Mungo’s was crawling with people. They were trying to force their way in, shouting about Harry being hidden there. I was already at the hospital—I go every month to visit my parents—and I overheard Hermione whispering. She didn’t see me. She was trying to be quiet, but I caught enough to realise they were moving him.”

He hesitated again, frowning at the memory.

“But I didn’t know where to. I wouldn’t have, if not for Luna.”

“Luna?” Arthur echoed, his brow lifting. “Xenophilius’s daughter?”

Neville nodded. A small, fond smile softened his face. “Yeah. She figured it out. Said she recognised the way Hermione spoke—what she didn’t say. And she’d been to Shell Cottage before.” He turned to Bill now, apologetic. “I think that’s how she guessed. She didn’t mean to betray anything. She just… connected the dots.”

Bill’s expression remained unreadable for a moment. Then he gave a small nod—almost reluctant, but accepting.

Neville went on. “We didn’t approach them directly. We wouldn’t have dared. But Luna said there’d be a way. So I waited outside, behind the dunes, just in case. And when they left, I slipped in. I didn’t touch anything else. Just… took a few strands from the pillow.”

Arthur turned sharply, his gaze sweeping the gathered faces with sudden, mounting urgency.

“Where is she?” he asked hoarsely, his voice barely more than a breath.

For a moment, no one answered.

Then Slughorn stepped forward from the edge of the clearing, his heavy robes askew and his face pale beneath the moonlight. There was something defeated in his posture—his usual bluster replaced with something far older and heavier.

“She’s with them,” he said quietly. “Refused to leave. Insisted on staying by their side.”

Arthur froze. He did not speak, did not move. But something in him seemed to recoil, as though the earth had slipped sideways beneath his feet. His face, so often warm and open, had gone very still—his features drawn tight, eyes locked on Slughorn’s.

“Harry… and Ron—?”

“They’re still unconscious,” Slughorn interrupted gently, as if it pained him to say it aloud. He turned his gaze to Molly, and when he spoke again, his voice dropped to something softer, something meant only for her. “I’m sorry, Molly. They haven’t stirred.”

Molly’s lips parted slightly, and she looked as though she might speak—but no sound came. Her arms wrapped tightly around herself, white-knuckled hands gripping opposite elbows. Her breath hitched.

“It’s been hours…” she whispered, her voice raw and trembling. “Surely—surely they’d have shown some sign—”

Slughorn shook his head with a grim sigh. “I fear whatever they’re facing… it’s not just a spell or curse,” he said heavily. “It’s deeper than that. Their minds are still battling. That’s why they remain as they are.”

A stillness settled over the clearing. Even the leaves above seemed to pause their rustling. No one spoke. No one dared.

From somewhere just behind them, Hagrid’s deep voice emerged, rough and uncertain.

“They’ll pull through, though… won’t they?”

His massive frame shifted in the dim light—shoulders hunched, fists clenched at his sides. His eyes, rimmed red and gleaming with unshed tears, searched Slughorn’s face for an answer he already suspected might not come.

“Harry, Ron, Hermione… Ginny… They’ll be all right. Won’t they?”

Slughorn met his gaze steadily. There was a pause—long enough for the silence to stretch taut between them. Then, slowly, he gave a slight shake of his head.

Not no. But not yes either.

And that silence—soft and brutal—said more than words ever could.

Hagrid swallowed hard and gave a single, resolute nod. He said nothing else. There was nothing to say. He understood.

They all did.

Hope, fragile and fraying, was all that remained.

All around the clearing, the remnants of Dumbledore’s Army murmured in low voices, their words broken and disjointed, carried on the still air. Neville caught snatches—Ginny’s name spoken with worry, Hermione’s whispered in disbelief, someone asking, “Why haven’t they woken up yet?” The loyalty hadn’t faded—but it had frayed at the edges. It was stretched thin with waiting, chafed raw by fear.

Neville stood amongst them, hollow-chested, his throat tight. His robes were still marked with soot and streaks of dirt, the Polyjuice long worn off. Harry’s face had vanished, but the dread remained—more acute now, somehow. More personal.

But he stood straighter.

Because despite the fear pressing hard against his ribs, he knew what he had done. And he would do it again. Without question. Without pause. If it meant giving them even a sliver of a chance.

He slipped his hand into his pocket and felt for the enchanted Galleon. It was still warm—pulsing faintly in his palm with the trace of the last message sent.

What if they didn’t wake?

What if this—this awful silence, this waiting—was how it ended?

No Harry. No Ron. No Hermione. No Ginny.

Only the echo of their names, the hollowness where they should have been, and the ache of those who remained.

The air pressed close around them, too heavy to breathe.

Then Kingsley’s voice rose across the clearing—calm, measured, but steeped in fatigue.

“It may be best if everyone returns home for now,” he said, addressing the weary circle of young witches and wizards. His shoulders were squared, his tone carefully steady, but the tired lines etched into his face betrayed him. “It’s been a long night. What you’ve done here has not gone unnoticed. But we’ll regroup in the morning.”

At once, protests erupted.

“We can’t leave now!”

“They need us!”

“We’ll wait till they wake; we’re not going anywhere!”

Faces lit with anger, voices rising—not with defiance, but devotion. No one wanted to leave. No one could bearto. They stood fast, exhausted and shaking, but held together by something fierce. They would not walk away. Not from Harry. Not from Ron, Hermione, or Ginny.

Kingsley raised a hand. The murmuring softened.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “Believe me, I do. But staying here, watching over them while they sleep—it won’t bring them back any faster. They are being looked after. The best thing you can do for them now… is to be ready. Rest. Be ready when they return. Because they will return.”

His gaze turned then, sharp and purposeful, to Draco.

“Come with me. We need to report to the Ministry.”

Draco gave a curt nod, stiff and silent. His face was drawn and grey with exhaustion, and his eyes were shadowed with more than lack of sleep. He said nothing as he stepped forward, but there was a gravity to him—something that suggested he understood the weight of what he had helped set in motion. Not just the lies, not just the plan—but the cost of it all.

Something passed between him and Kingsley then. Unspoken, solemn. A reckoning, perhaps. Or an understanding.

And then, one by one, the members of the DA began to Disapparate. They left in twos and threes, reluctant, casting long looks back toward the centre of the camp before vanishing into the darkness.

Soon, only a handful remained: Kingsley. Draco. Slughorn. Hagrid. Neville. And the Weasleys.

The clearing was quiet once more.

Then it happened.

A sudden pulse of warmth flickered to life in Neville’s pocket, sharp and insistent.

He froze.

His breath hitched. “It’s Luna,” he said at once, reaching into his robes with a trembling hand. He pulled out the enchanted Galleon, its surface glinting in the silver light as tiny, shifting letters reshaped themselves across the gold.

All eyes snapped to him.

“What is it?” Arthur asked quickly, stepping closer. His face, already deeply lined with worry, now seemed more worn, as though the weight of each hour had carved a fresh crease. His gaze fixed on the coin, intent and searching.

Neville squinted at the message, fingers tightening around the Galleon. “She said she’d let me know—if anything changed,” he said, the words rushing out in a breath. “It could be Harry—or Ron—or…”

His voice caught before he could say Hermione’s name. Or Ginny’s.

“Could they have woken?” Percy asked, his voice thin and laced with something brittle. He glanced between Neville and the coin, as though trying to decipher the message himself by sheer will.

Kingsley moved then, placing a steady hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Draco and I must return to the Ministry,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “But whatever Luna’s message is, please—let us know the moment you learn more.”

Arthur nodded. “We will,” he said firmly, already turning towards the rest of his family. He glanced at Molly, then at George. “Some of us should go back to Shell Cottage. See what’s happened with our own eyes. And Molly—we ought to take George to St Mungo’s, just in case.”

George, who was leaning against Bill with a rather exaggerated slouch, groaned softly. “I’m still breathing, Dad. Might be missing half a dozen layers of skin and a few pints of blood, but I’ll live.”

“Stubborn idiot,” Bill muttered fondly, shifting to support more of his brother’s weight.

“If I collapse dramatically, then you can cart me off to hospital,” George added with a weak grin. “But let’s go to Shell Cottage first. I’d rather be there when they wake.”

Molly hesitated, worry clouding her face. She reached out, brushing a gentle hand over the angry red gash on his arm. “Are you certain, dear?” she asked, quietly. “You’re pale.”

“These scratches won’t finish off a Weasley,” George said with a tired, lopsided smile. “You’ll have to try harder than that to get rid of me, Mum.”

She gave a short, tearful huff—half exasperation, half relief—and cradled his cheek for a moment. “We’ll go to St Mungo’s afterwards. No arguments.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” George replied, giving a lazy salute. “Compliant as ever, that’s me.”

Draco, who had been silent until now, paused at the edge of the clearing. He turned back towards them, expression shuttered but his eyes strangely clear.

“Give my regards to Harry,” he said abruptly. His voice was clipped—formal, almost—but not cold. Not mocking. It rang oddly in the silence, and for a brief moment, no one knew quite what to make of it.

Neville blinked. Of all the things he’d expected Malfoy to say, that hadn’t been one of them. There was no trace of sarcasm. Just something… sincere. Honest. Respectful, even.

He glanced quickly at the others. The Weasleys gave no visible reaction. If they’d noticed the shift in Draco’s tone, they kept it to themselves.

With a soft crack, Malfoy Disapparated, vanishing at Kingsley’s side.

The stillness returned.

Neville, still clutching the Galleon, turned to face the group. His heart was hammering—too fast, too loud—but he swallowed hard and tried to steady his voice.

“Can I come with you?” he asked. The words came out quieter than he’d meant them to, small in the silence. But they were certain. Planted. Rooted deep in something that had grown strong inside him.

Bill looked at him, and his smile, when it came, was gentle.

“Of course you can,” he said, as though it had never been in doubt. “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, embarrassed crimson. He gave a sheepish little laugh, shoulders hunching.

“I didn’t really think it through,” he admitted. “Just knew we had to hold the line. Till he came back.”

Bill’s eyes warmed. “You did more than that. You gave everyone a reason to believe he would come back.”

The sea rolled in and out beyond the edge of Shell Cottage. The moon hung high and full above the horizon, its pale light spilling across the water and brushing the cottage walls in a silvery sheen.

Inside, the little house was steeped in hush.

Luna Lovegood stood alone by the window, her eyes wide and faraway, fixed not on any one thing, but on the glimmering spread of stars above. Her long blonde hair trailed loosely down her back, catching the candlelight in strands of ghostly gold. She looked for all the world like a dream made solid—but her thoughts were anything but still.

It had been hours since Professor Slughorn had left. He’d departed with soft reassurances and careful words, but Luna had not moved much since then. The quiet had deepened. The candles—some conjured, some real—flickered along windowsills and shelves, casting long shadows across the wooden beams and stone hearth. Light shimmered faintly over the worn floorboards, where Luna’s soft steps traced a gentle path from room to room.

She was drawn to them—the ones who had not woken.

In the largest bedroom, where the air still held the scent of salt and smoke, four narrow beds stood in a line. The forms upon them lay still, save for the occasional breath or twitch, subtle but enough to keep Luna watching.

Harry. Ron. Hermione. Ginny.

From a distance, they might have looked peaceful. But Luna had sat beside them long enough to notice the tremors in Harry’s fingers, the flicker of Ginny’s brow, and the tightness behind Hermione’s eyes. And Ron—Ron had never been still, even in sleep. His leg had jerked more than once beneath the blanket, as though caught in some lingering nightmare.

Luna watched them all, her gaze unblinking, her heart a quiet drum in her chest. She wanted to believe they were simply resting. That they were mending. That this was how it began—the return.

But there was a shadow in her thoughts, one she could not shake.

Neville had contacted her hours earlier through the Galleon. The urgency in it had made her heart leap with fear. The moment he explained what had happened, she’d told him she was coming.

No second thoughts. No time for them.

The Ministry atrium had been dim when she arrived—lamplit and strangely empty. She had spotted Neville instantly. He stood beside Minister Shacklebolt and Draco Malfoy, his posture stiff, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. His eyes had been too wide, his voice too low.

He told her everything. About the events at St Mungo’s. The way Hermione had spoken of a certain hiding place in fragments—how the name had lodged somewhere deep in Neville’s mind but refused to surface.

She had listened quietly, nodding, her expression unreadable. And then she’d said it.

“It’s Shell Cottage. That’s where they are.”

There had been no doubt. Luna didn’t always know why she knew things—but when she did, it was as certain to her as the stars.

She had been here before, after all. Rescued from Malfoy Manor by Dobby’s trembling hands, brought here with Dean and Mr Ollivander and Griphook. She remembered the stillness then, too. A fragile sort of peace that had wrapped around her when nothing else had made sense. The walls had held them all, made them whole again.

She hoped they could still do the same.

Now, standing once more in that very room, Luna breathed in slowly and let the past settle into the present. She stepped forward.

Ron stirred first.

It was a small movement: the shift of a shoulder beneath the blanket, then the twitch of a hand. Luna moved at once, her footsteps light as she crossed the room and knelt beside him.

“Ron?” she whispered, her voice no louder than the wind outside.

His brow furrowed. He blinked slowly, lids heavy and unsure. “Luna?”

“Yes,” she said, offering him a soft smile. “You’re the first.”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Feels like I’ve been trampled by a herd of Hippogriffs…”

He tried to sit up, wincing as he did, his muscles stiff and uncooperative. But his eyes—though bleary—searched the room almost instantly. “Hermione? Ginny? Where—?”

“They’re here,” Luna murmured. “They’re sleeping still. But they’re stirring. Just as you did.”

As if summoned by her words, Ginny gave a low sigh, her head rolling slightly to one side. A second later, Hermione shifted as well, her fingers curling around the edge of her blanket. Her eyes opened—slowly, unfocused at first.

“Ron?” she rasped, her voice thin and cracked.

“I’m here,” Ron said at once, turning sharply towards her. He reached for her hand without hesitation, and she clutched his fingers tightly.

Hermione sat up far too quickly and swayed where she sat, the world still unsteady around her. But her eyes were locked on Ron’s, and the fear began to drain from her face.

Ginny stirred next, brow furrowed. She pushed herself upright with slow, jerky movements, her hands gripping the edge of the bed.

“What’s going on?” she asked, voice hoarse. “Where—where are we?”

“You’re safe,” Luna said gently, moving towards her. “You’re home.”

Ginny’s gaze swept across the room, darting from face to face, as if needing proof. She saw Ron and Hermione and saw Luna.

“Is this real?” she whispered. Her voice trembled. “Are you real?”

Luna reached out and tucked a strand of Ginny’s hair behind her ear. Her smile was soft, her tone warm and strange and somehow steadying.

“As real as starlight,” she said. “But yes. You’re here. You’re safe. You’ve come back.”

Hermione blinked rapidly, the world still spinning just out of reach. Her breath hitched as a tight prickle gathered behind her eyes, and though she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, the tears came all the same—silvery and soundless. She lifted a hand to her face, hoping the others wouldn’t notice the way her lips trembled.

“How long have we been asleep?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper and far more fragile than she meant it to be.

“Only a few hours,” Luna said gently. She was standing close now, her hands folded before her, calm as ever. “You’ve all been through so much. We weren’t sure how long it would take… or if you’d—”

She broke off suddenly. Her words trailed into the still air, unfinished and heavy. For a moment, Luna’s eyes—those oddly luminous, far-seeing eyes—shone with something other than their usual dreamlike calm. She pressed her lips together and gave a small shake of her head. No, she would not say the rest. There was no need to say it aloud.

Hermione met Ron’s gaze briefly, then Ginny’s. All three of them shared the same unspoken thought. That perhaps the real miracle wasn’t that they’d woken but that they had at all.

The room, though quiet, held a kind of tension. The quiet wasn’t peaceful. It was watchful. Luna’s presence, usually so soothing in its strangeness, made their own confusion feel more apparent. She looked at each of them in turn, her gaze steady and curious, as though examining puzzle pieces to a riddle she hadn’t yet solved.

Her voice, when she spoke again, was soft. “Do you remember anything? Has the ritual—?”

“The ritual!” Ron blurted, the word striking the silence like a bell. He sat up straighter, colour returning to his cheeks, though a deep furrow remained between his brows. “Right—blimey, I’d forgotten for a second. We… we actually did it, didn’t we?”

Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth. Her fingers trembled where they rested, and her breath came quicker. “So we’re back…” she breathed, as if the very notion still seemed impossible. “We really came back.”

“Yes,” Luna said again, her voice unwavering. “You’ve only just returned.”

But even as that truth took root in their minds, it became clear something was wrong. Their eyes had turned—almost instinctively—to the fourth bed.

To him.

Harry hadn’t moved.

Ginny’s breath hitched. Her expression faltered, hope warring with rising panic as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and crossed to his side. Her footsteps were unsteady, as if the floor beneath her wasn’t quite real yet. She knelt beside him, hands reaching without hesitation.

“Why hasn’t he woken up?” she asked, brushing the fringe from his brow with trembling fingers. Her hand lingered there, resting lightly against his temple. “We finished it, didn’t we? We drank the potion. We completed the ritual. He should be—he should be—”

“We must’ve done it,” Ron cut in, a little too quickly. “Look at us—we’re awake. That’s got to count for something.”

“But why hasn’t Harry?” Ginny’s voice cracked. Her shoulders shook as she drew in a breath, her eyes never leaving his face. “If it worked… he should be here. With us. With me.”

No one answered. The silence that followed was thick and unmoving, and the gentle crackle of a candle nearby seemed far too loud in the stillness.

Hermione gripped the hem of her blanket in white-knuckled fists, grounding herself in the fabric. “We need to think,” she said, forcing steadiness into her tone. “Let’s go back. What’s the last thing we remember? Before we woke up?”

Another silence stretched out—longer this time. Each of them searched the recesses of memory for something that might offer clarity. But it wasn’t easy. The moments before waking were muddled.

“I only remember pieces,” Hermione said finally, her brow deeply furrowed. “Flashes of light. Silver. And mirrors. But they weren’t ordinary ones. They weren’t just showing reflections—they were showing… other things.”

“I saw something, too,” Ginny added. Her voice was quieter now, more collected. “But everything felt off. Far away. Like I couldn’t reach it properly.”

“There was a task,” said Ron slowly. “We had to do something… important. Something we couldn’t mess up. But I can’t remember what it was. Or what came after.”

Hermione closed her eyes, trying to summon the fragments. “There was a golden potion,” she murmured. “And those mirrors—yes, they weren’t just reflections. They were… showing us people. Faces. Memories, maybe. I don’t know.”

Luna tilted her head slightly to the side, her fair brows drawn in mild concentration. “Were you dreaming, do you think?” she asked. “Or did it feel more… real?”

Hermione opened her eyes and met hers. “It wasn’t a dream,” she said firmly. “It was something else. A place. Not here, not anywhere I’ve ever been before. Another realm, maybe. And Harry—Harry was with us. I’m certain of it.”

“I remember him too,” said Ginny, her voice low. “He was there… but he wasn’t right.”

“No,” said Ron, nodding slowly. “He was off. Not angry, just… cold. Different. He spoke strangely. Didn’t look at us the way he normally does.”

Ginny wrapped her arms around herself. “It reminded me of Malfoy,” she said, her voice tightening. “Not exactly, but… there was something in his expression. Arrogance. Distance. He wasn’t Harry. Or he was, but changed.”

At the name, Luna’s expression sharpened almost imperceptibly. Her features remained placid, but the light in her eyes shifted. Something flickered across her face—recognition, perhaps. Or worry.

“Malfoy?” she echoed softly.

The others turned to look at her.

It was rare to see Luna unsettled. Even now, she did not frown or flinch. But there was a new weight in her posture—a quiet readiness. She stepped closer to Harry’s bed, gazing down at him with thoughtful intensity.

Ginny nodded slowly, though her eyes remained locked on Harry’s still form. Her voice was quiet. “I can’t say for certain,” she murmured. “But it felt as though… someone else was inside him. Or that he’d… become someone else entirely.”

Luna’s expression shifted. It was subtle, but in someone so rarely touched by strong emotion, even a slight darkening of her gaze felt like a storm passing through. “Another Harry?” she echoed, her tone delicate, as if the words themselves might splinter in her mouth.

Ginny didn’t answer straightaway. Her brow was furrowed, her eyes distant, fixed not on Harry now but on something far beyond the room. When she finally spoke again, it was slowly and thoughtfully. “Not another Harry, exactly. Not a twin or a copy. It was… more like a version of him. Twisted. Altered. As though the ritual didn’t just bring us somewhere—it brought something out of him.”

Ron let out a low breath, his arms folded tightly across his chest. “Or maybe it didn’t bring anything,” he muttered grimly. “Maybe it was already there. Hidden inside him. And we just never saw it—until it was too late.”

Ginny’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her whole body was rigid now, tight with the weight of fear she wasn’t willing to name. “Then what does that mean?” she asked. “Is he trapped? Is that why he hasn’t woken? Because… whatever we saw in that place—that thing—is still in control?”

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

Hermione turned to her sharply, scrutinising Luna with a mixture of scepticism and desperation. “But how do you know that?” she asked, voice taut. “You weren’t in there with us. How can you be so sure?”

Luna offered the faintest of smiles. “I can’t explain it properly. It’s just a feeling. The way I can tell when there are Nargles hiding behind the pantry door. You don’t always need proof to know something’s true. Sometimes… you just know.”

Ron groaned and dragged his hands down his face, frustration boiling beneath his weariness. “So we didn’t dream it. Brilliant. But then what did we do? Was the ritual supposed to free Harry? Or have we accidentally shoved him into some place he can’t come back from?”

His question lingered in the room like a weight no one wanted to carry. Hermione wrapped her arms tightly around herself, as if to keep something from spilling out.

“It all felt real,” she whispered. “The potion, the mirrors, the voices. The cold. But what if none of it meant anything? What if we didn’t save him at all?”

No one replied. The only sound was the sea outside the cottage windows—the slow rise and fall of the waves, distant and eternal, offering no answers.

Ron shifted uncomfortably, eyes fixed on the floor. “I think… we must’ve completed something. There were tasks. I can’t remember all of it, but just before I woke, I remember—bars. Like a cage. We were locked up.”

At those words, Luna’s eyes sharpened. She didn’t speak at once, but there was something keen behind her gaze now—a glint of awareness, of recognition. “Bars?” she repeated, her voice quiet. “And do you remember what you were doing? Before that?”

Hermione’s brow furrowed in concentration. “No… I don’t think so. But the cold… I remember how cold it was. The air felt thin. I could feel something pressing against my skin, holding me in.”

For a moment, silence reclaimed the space again—but this time it was different. Heavier. Closer.

Ginny sat slowly beside Harry, reaching for his hand. It was still warm. That warmth, meant to be comforting, only deepened the ache in her chest. It made his stillness feel all the more wrong. As if his body remained, but his soul had drifted elsewhere.

She ran her thumb softly over his knuckles, and her voice came out barely more than a breath. “If we were imprisoned… Then what were we meant to do in there? What was the point of it?”

Hermione sighed and closed her eyes, as if the answers might be hiding behind her lids. “Something happened,” she said. “I know it did. Something important. But it’s slipping away. Like trying to catch smoke with your fingers.”

Ron rubbed the back of his neck, his jaw tight. “Do you reckon that was the ritual? Being trapped? Maybe it was meant to test us. Break us apart. Or… free us from something else.”

Ginny’s head snapped up. Her voice trembled with frustration and grief. “Then why isn’t Harry awake?”

Ron swallowed hard. “You don’t think we… failed, do you?”

Ginny said nothing. Her gaze had dropped again to Harry’s face, pale in the candlelight, his dark lashes still. Her hands trembled slightly where they rested over his heart, willing it to stir.

The silence that returned wasn’t just empty—it was suffocating.

The sea continued to murmur outside the walls. But the rhythm of the waves offered no peace tonight.

Ron turned to Hermione, searching her face for something—logic, an anchor. She looked paler than ever, her eyes shadowed, her lips pressed tightly together.

“I don’t feel anything wrong,” he said quickly, latching onto the only solid thread he could find. “Remember what Harry said last time? He said it burnt. He said it felt like something inside him was tearing apart. I don’t feel anything like that now. Do you?”

Hermione shook her head slowly. “No. I don’t. But… if we did fail—if the magic fractured instead of completing—maybe the damage isn’t to us. Maybe it’s to him. Or we won’t be feeling it at this instant.”

Ginny’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. But when she spoke, her voice was firm. Steady. “I don’t believe that. I won’t believe it. We didn’t come all this way just to lose him at the end. We finished it. The potion, the mirrors, the bars—we endured it. Together.”

She leaned forward, placing her fingers gently at Harry’s wrist. She held her breath, waiting—for a flicker of movement, a pulse she already knew was there.

Her voice broke through the silence again, this time low but certain. “It had to mean something.”

A long moment passed.

Then, at last, Ginny exhaled—a breath heavy with mingled relief and a dread that pressed low against her ribs.

“His pulse is steady,” she whispered.

Her voice carried through the room. Yet it brought no peace. Only the knowledge that he lived, yes—but not why he remained so heartbreakingly still.

Ron and Hermione watched her in silence, their expressions drawn and pale, as though the weight of the night had turned their very bones brittle. Hermione curled in on herself, her arms locked around her knees, her chin resting atop them. Her eyes stared blankly into the fire, seeing nothing. Beside her, Ron fidgeted restlessly, twisting the hem of his sleeve over and over with his fingers, as though trying to occupy a part of himself while his thoughts spiralled.

Then suddenly, Hermione stirred. Her eyes lit—not with fear, but with sudden clarity, as if a match had been struck within her mind.

“I need the Anima book,” she said, springing to her feet so abruptly that the blanket around her shoulders slipped off and collapsed onto the floor. “If there’s anything—anything—about what comes after a ritual like this, it’ll be in there. I should’ve checked sooner—”

She turned, already halfway to the small shelf they’d cluttered with magical texts, but Ron caught her movement and turned sharply to Luna instead.

“How long’s it been?” he asked, his voice strained with tension. “Since it started? Since we went under?”

Luna blinked slowly, her gaze drifting toward the window where the night pressed against the glass. She tilted her head, studying the slant of starlight beyond the panes as though the sky itself might answer.

“Only a few hours,” she replied, her voice soft. “I arrived not long ago. Neville and Minister Shacklebolt asked me to stay and watch over you.”

The words didn’t strike immediately. There was a pause—just a fraction too long—before the three of them reacted.

Hermione stilled mid-step, her fingers hovering just above the spine of the Anima volume. Ginny’s brows drew together in a sharp frown. Ron gave Luna a cautious, suspicious glance, as though trying to catch her in some misstep.

“Watch over us?” Hermione repeated slowly, each word deliberate, as though she were sounding them out for hidden meanings. “Why? What were you expecting to happen?”

Luna didn’t answer straight away.

And then they noticed it—the silence.

Not the ordinary hush of evening, nor the soothing quiet of a house at rest—but a complete stillness. No footfalls above. No voices from the kitchen. No creak of floorboards, no clatter of plates or distant laughter. Just the soft, unceasing breath of the sea beyond the windows.

“It’s too quiet,” Ron muttered, rising to his feet. “Far too quiet for a house full of Weasleys.”

Ginny stood too, her expression sharpening. “Luna… where is everyone?” she asked, her voice tight. “Where are Mum and Dad? The others?”

Luna turned to face them fully now, the usual dreamy haze in her eyes pulled back, replaced by something steadier—something weighted. Her tone was kind but laced with sorrow, and it made Ginny’s stomach twist even before the words came.

“Your brother George has been taken.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the fire seemed to dim, the flames leaning lower, flickering weakly.

“No—” Ron breathed, his face draining of colour. “What? What do you mean, taken?”

Ginny’s voice rose before she could stop it. “Kidnapped? By whom? When?”

Hermione staggered back a step, one hand pressed to her chest, her breathing gone shallow. “Luna, please—what happened?”

“They’ve gone into the Forbidden Forest,” Luna said gently. “Your family. Neville. The Minister. They’re meeting the Death Eaters there.”

“The forest?” Hermione asked faintly.

But Luna didn’t reply to that. Instead, she looked at them each in turn, her gaze quiet and grave. “They moved quickly,” she continued. “Neville and the Minister. They set protections in place before they left. Shields around the house. Traps in the trees. They knew you might not wake in time. That’s why they asked me to stay behind. To protect you until the moment was right.”

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

“You can’t go now,” Luna said, her voice firmer than any of them were used to hearing. “It’s too dangerous in the dark. You’re not ready.”

“But they are in danger,” Ginny said fiercely, her hands trembling by her sides. “You’re saying they’re out there, fighting Merlin knows what, and you want us to wait?”

Luna didn’t flinch beneath her words. “Yes,” she said simply. “Because that’s what they asked me to do. And because I trust them.”

Her words struck harder than Ginny expected.

“Trust,” Ron repeated bitterly, his mouth twisted. He turned his back to them and stared out at the darkness pressing against the glass. “I don’t even know what’s real anymore.”

Hermione, who had been watching Luna with a hard, probing stare, suddenly spoke. “You said you stayed behind. You helped Neville plan this?”

“And the Minister,” Luna replied, nodding. Her hand slipped into her cloak, and when it emerged, it held a gleaming Galleon. The coin shimmered faintly in the firelight, its surface pulsing with warm magic.

“I promised Neville I’d send word the moment you woke. He’ll know you’re safe now.”

Ron stared at the coin, his shoulders tight with barely contained frustration. “So that’s it?” he asked hoarsely. “We just wait while George is out there somewhere, maybe hurt, maybe worse? How can you all just sit here?!”

Ginny said nothing. Her throat was too tight. Her jaw locked in place. Her hands were fists, nails digging into her palms, drawing pain to keep her grounded.

“I understand how you feel,” Luna said quietly. “Truly. But if the plan’s working, if they’ve done what they set out to do, then bursting in now would only risk ruining everything.”

Ron shook his head, a sound escaping him that was half laughter, half despair. “You understand?” he said, turning back to her. “You always talk about faith and trusting what we can’t see, but this—this is George. He’s not a symbol, Luna—he’s our brother.”

“And that’s exactly why they’re out there,” Luna said, not unkindly. “Because he matters. And because you do, too.”

For a beat, no one moved.

Then a noise shattered the fragile quiet—a sharp crack, followed by another. Then a third, louder still.

They all froze.

“That’s people Apparating,” Ginny breathed, her voice barely more than a tremor. Her heart had lurched so suddenly she could feel its thud against her ribs. “It has to be.”

They didn’t speak again. As though gripped by a single instinct, they moved—feet carrying them across the room before conscious thought could catch up. Hope flared in their chests, fierce and reckless, forcing their limbs forward even as dread clung to their heels.

Ron was the first to reach the door. It creaked on its hinges as it opened, cold night air spilling into the warmth of the cottage. And beyond it—in the dark—they came.

Figures were emerging between the trees. Lantern light bobbed among them, the beams weaving and dancing through the gloom. As they came nearer, the light touched their faces—some smeared with blood or mud, others white with exhaustion, but all of them alive. And achingly familiar.

Luna’s breath hitched beside them.

“Neville,” she whispered, almost reverently.

He was at the front, his robes torn and caked with damp earth, his hair sticking up at odd angles as though the wind had dragged him backwards through branches. He looked utterly done in—but his eyes were bright, burning with relief.

And behind him—

“George!” Ron’s voice cracked on the name, more a gasp than a shout.

George was there—barely upright, one arm slung over Bill’s shoulder, the other supported by Percy. His face was ashen, jaw bruised, and one eye swelling shut, but even then—even like that—his mouth tugged into the faintest, stubbornest grin.

Ron didn’t wait. He surged forward with a choked cry, and the others rushed with him, with no time for words. Just the sound of limbs colliding, breath catching, and arms locking tightly round shoulders. Sobs rose without shame.

Ginny collided with her mother before she even realised she was crying. Molly wrapped her arms around her daughter as though she were something fragile that might shatter if held too loosely.

“Thank Merlin,” Molly whispered, again and again, her hands fluttering over Ginny’s hair, her cheeks, and her shoulders. “Oh, my girl—my darling girl—you’re safe, you’re here, thank Merlin—”

Arthur followed, slower, steadier, but no less affected. His eyes were glassy as he laid a hand on Ron’s head, brushing it down fondly, then pulling his son into a rare, solid embrace.

For a moment, everything held still. The danger, the fear, the grim waiting—it all fell away. There was only the warmth of bodies pressed together, the heartbeat of family drawn tight around each other. Tears mingled with laughter, and the flickering torchlight turned the night gold.

Then a shape filled the doorway—tall, broad, unmistakable.

“There yeh are!” boomed Hagrid’s voice.

He grinned through his shaggy beard, but his eyes shone wetly, and his cheeks were blotchy. He trudged inside with relief pouring off him, the doorframe barely wide enough to admit him.

“All in one piece, thank Merlin,” he said, glancing at each of them in turn.

Slughorn tottered in behind him, dabbing at his forehead with a sodden silk handkerchief, robes rumpled, hair windblown. He wheezed a theatrical sigh and all but collapsed into the nearest armchair, waving away attempts to help him with a tired flourish.

Neville stepped in last.

He hovered just past the threshold, as though something held him there. His gaze swept the room, landing on Hermione. His expression softened.

“You’re really back,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

Hermione couldn’t speak. Her throat was clogged with everything she hadn’t dared feel until this moment. She nodded instead, and tears—fresh and unshed—glimmered on her lashes.

Ron, with help from Percy, was lowering George onto the sofa. George winced as his side hit the cushions, and Ron flinched in sympathy.

“What happened?” he asked hoarsely, his hand still gripping George’s shoulder. “What actually happened out there?”

“It was bedlam,” Bill said, tugging off his gloves. His fingers trembled slightly. His eyes were still too wide, as though the adrenaline hadn’t finished leaving him. “We walked straight into a trap. They were waiting. Yaxley and a few others. But…”

He hesitated, exchanging a look with Neville.

“But what?” Ginny pressed.

“It was Malfoy,” Neville said. “Draco Malfoy. He tipped us off. Told the minister in advance. He knew what Yaxley was planning.”

Ginny blinked. “Malfoy?” she repeated, as though she’d misheard. “That Malfoy?”

“He helped us,” Neville said simply. “He passed on the intel and helped coordinate where the traps went. Even arranged for centaur support—said he’d convinced Bane to get involved.”

Hermione stared at him, brow furrowed. “Malfoy did all that?”

Neville gave a short nod. “He gave me Polyjuice. I posed as Harry. We wanted them to think they’d caught the real one—that the ritual had gone wrong. And they bought it. We had concealments and curses layered into the forest paths. Slughorn helped set half of them. And the centaurs were waiting too. We weren’t outnumbered—we were ready.”

George coughed a laugh, low and rasping. “Could’ve told someone the centaurs were that trigger-happy,” he muttered. “Nearly lost someone’s eyebrows.”

Slughorn, from his chair, gave a wheezy huff. “Never again,” he murmured. “That’s quite enough fieldworkfor my lifetime…”

Arthur and Molly sat beside George now, one on each side. Molly fussed over his shirt, inspecting the bruises with trembling fingers, while Arthur gripped his son’s forearm with a silent strength that said more than words.

“And… you won?” Ron asked eventually, his voice cautious.

Neville hesitated—then allowed a tired smile to creep onto his face. “We’re still standing. That counts for something. Yaxley’s in custody. The rest scattered—some stunned, others fled.”

Around the room, a quiet murmur spread. It wasn’t quite a celebration. But it was close. It was relief. It was the knowledge that something had gone right.

Hermione, finally, let out a shaky breath. A smile—small and real—touched her lips.

Then—

“Where’s Harry?”

The question came from Hagrid.

It wasn’t loud. But it cut through the room all the same, sharp and sudden, as though someone had pulled the pin from a carefully placed charm.

Silence fell.

Hagrid stood by the hearth now, the fire casting flickers across his coat and boots. His massive hands hung by his sides, fingers clenched, and his face—so often a muddle of expression—was unreadable.

“Harry should be here,” Percy said, softly. He adjusted his glasses, though his voice trembled despite the attempt at composure. “He should be celebrating with us. None of this—none of it—would’ve happened without him.”

Neville’s smile faded. “I kept thinking… I’d tell him it worked. That we followed the plan.” He looked down, jaw clenched. “I think… I forgot for a minute that he’s not—”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

The hush had settled so thickly upon the room it seemed to press against the very walls.

No one moved. No one dared to speak.

All eyes had turned slowly, almost unwillingly, towards Ron, Hermione, and Ginny.

They had said nothing.

Ginny sat stiffly, her hands folded in her lap. Her gaze remained fixed downward, unmoving, as though she couldn’t bring herself to lift it. Her knuckles were white.

Ron’s jaw was clenched, tight enough to ache, his stare directed somewhere far beyond the room—though whether to avoid the looks or to block out something darker, it wasn’t clear.

And Hermione… Hermione had her eyes shut. Her brow furrowed, her breath measured and shallow. She looked as though she were bracing herself against something inevitable. Something she had spent too long trying not to name.

Across the room, Luna watched them with quiet, unfaltering attention. The silence they held—whatever it contained—spoke louder than any answer. It had weight. Cold, unfamiliar weight. Luna felt it settle in her chest like a forgotten truth, and for the first time since their return, she found she couldn’t smile.

She opened her mouth—to ask, perhaps, to guess—but the words would not come.

Hermione finally looked up. Her voice, when it came, was low but even.

“Harry’s still unconscious.”

The impact was immediate. A collective breath shivered through the room, sharp and disbelieving.

“But… why?” whispered Molly, the tremor in her voice making it almost childlike. “Why just Harry?”

“We don’t know,” Ginny murmured. Her voice was so quiet it nearly disappeared. She didn’t raise her eyes. Her fingers dug into her clothes, twisting the fabric until it creased. “Everyone else came back. Everyone but him.”

Slughorn’s round face had lost all its colour. The usual indulgent gleam in his eye was gone, replaced by a tight frown.

“Is it possible,” he asked carefully, “that the ritual went wrong? That it… affected him differently to the rest of you?”

Hermione exhaled slowly, her lips pressed together. “We’ve considered that,” she said, though her voice shook on the word. “But there was nothing—nothing in the ritual itself to suggest Harry would have responded any differently. Still…” She trailed off, her eyes flicking briefly towards the corridor Ginny had walked through earlier. “There’s something we’re not seeing. Something we missed. I can’t explain it, but it’s wrong. I feel it.”

“Doubt?” repeated Hagrid. His huge form shifted forward, boots thudding across the floor. His expression was stricken, and he glanced between them as if they might all suddenly burst into laughter and say it was a mistake. “What d’yeh mean, Hermione? Harry’ll be all right. He’s strong, that boy. He’s pulled through worse than this, hasn’t he?”

“No one remembers,” Ron said quietly. He looked down at his own hands. “Not the end. Not what happened right before we came back. It’s all… gone. It’s as if someone reached in and took it from us.”

Bill’s head snapped round. “That’s not normal,” he said sharply. He crossed the room in long, hurried strides. “That’s not how magic fades. You should have something—an echo, at least. A trace.”

Hermione and Ron exchanged a glance, and both of them shook their heads.

“No pain?” Bill pressed. “No confusion? Dreams? Anything unusual?”

Ron hesitated, then gave a helpless shrug. “Just the absence of something. Like we blinked and skipped over the last page.”

Hermione rubbed her temples. “It’s like trying to remember a dream you know you had but can’t reach.”

Slughorn leaned forward, urgency creeping into his tone. “Have you consulted the Anima book?” he asked. “Surely the book had contingencies. Something we’ve overlooked?”

Hermione turned towards the battered tome still resting on the side table. She hesitated only a second before crossing the room and flipping it open. The cover creaked. Her fingers trembled slightly as she rifled through the pages, the delicate parchment whispering against her skin. She skimmed each passage with rapid precision, her lips moving silently as she read.

The room waited, holding its breath.

Minutes ticked by. Hermione’s brow knitted deeper with each turn, each line that failed to yield answers. At last, her hand stopped. She stared at the page for a long, silent moment—then slammed the book shut.

“There’s nothing,” she said bitterly. “No warnings, no exceptions, no safeguards. As if this possibility never existed. As if we weren’t even meant to survive it.”

Ron moved to stand beside her. “There has to be something we missed.”

“We’ve been over everything,” Hermione said, not looking at him. “Every theory, every interpretation. It all ends the same way.”

No one spoke.

Then, from the far doorway, Ginny’s voice broke the silence.

“Then why won’t he wake up?”

They turned.

She stood framed in the corridor, her face pale, eyes shining but dry. She stared at them, but her gaze held no blame—only helplessness, raw and unguarded.

“He’s breathing. He’s warm. But something’s… wrong. It’s not sleep. It’s not healing. He’s—he’s stuck. Maybe he’s trapped. Maybe he’s fighting something in his mind, and we just can’t reach him.”

Her voice dropped. “And if he doesn’t find a way back—what if we lose him? What if we already have?”

No one answered.

Ginny’s eyes swept across the room once more, as if daring someone to contradict her.

When no answer came, she turned and disappeared back down the corridor without another word.

Luna followed.

She didn’t speak, didn’t offer comfort. She merely walked, her steps soft on the wooden floor, her heart tightening with the weight of it all.

The door to the room at the end stood ajar, and the light within flickered low, casting long, hesitant shadows.

Inside, the air felt different. Slower. Still. As though the world had paused at the threshold.

Harry lay on the bed. Pale. Motionless. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but there was no peace in it.

Ginny knelt beside him, cradling his hand in both of hers. Her thumb traced slow, deliberate paths across the lines of his palm. Her touch was feather-light, reverent, as if she believed she might wake him through sheer will alone.

Luna stood in the doorway, her gaze fixed on his face. He looked so young like this. So quiet. But this wasn’t sleep. She could see that now.

She imagined him elsewhere—some distant field under a sunlit sky, surrounded by tall trees or running water. Some place untouched by pain, where no war chased after him.

But something in her heart twisted.

That wasn’t where he was.

This wasn’t rest.

He wasn’t healing.

He was lost.

And this time… wherever he’d gone…

They couldn’t follow.