Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction / Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ A Horcrux’s Fate ❯ Chapter 19 ( Chapter 19 )

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Molly paced the room like a trapped creature, the low candlelight casting trembling shadows across her drawn face. The stone walls flickered with each step she took, as though the room itself recoiled from her fear. Her fingers twisted the hem of her sleeve, eyes flicking again and again towards the four still figures lying side by side.

Harry was in the centre, flanked by Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Too still. Their chests rose only faintly—barely enough to prove they were still breathing at all.

“They look like they’re just asleep,” she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else. Then, louder, her voice brittle, cracking at the edges: “How much longer?” She turned sharply. “How long until they wake?”

Slughorn faltered. His ruddy complexion had paled to grey, and his eyes kept darting from one unconscious figure to the next. “I—I don’t know,” he admitted at last, his voice thin and uncertain. “The ritual didn’t specify what would follow. Only that it had to be completed.”

Molly rounded on him. “You performed advanced magic on them without knowing what it would do?”

“It was the only option!” Slughorn snapped, then flushed with shame. “They agreed. They understood the stakes.”

“But did they understand the cost?” Her voice rose, shrill with panic. “They’re still children—”

“They’re not,” Hagrid said softly.

The words dropped into the room like a stone. He stood near the wall, his enormous hands clenched into trembling fists.

“Not anymore.”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy, stretching into every corner.

Hagrid drew a long, ragged breath, his eyes fixed on Harry. “They will wake… won’t they?” he asked, his voice no louder than a breath. “Tell me they will.”

Slughorn opened his mouth, then closed it again. When he finally spoke, it was barely more than a whisper. “If the ritual failed… if Harry couldn’t do what was required… he may never come back.”

The words struck Molly like a blow. Her knees buckled, and she caught herself against the edge of the table. The air around her seemed to shift—thickening, tightening—until each breath felt like it might break her.

“No,” she said, more to herself than the others. “No. Not Harry. Not after everything.”

She turned to him—the boy she’d long since counted as one of her own. His face was still, too pale. The spark that always seemed to live just behind his eyes, even in sleep, was gone. Her chest ached with helpless grief.

Ginny’s hand twitched.

Molly surged forward—then stopped. Just a spasm. Nothing more.

“I can’t do this again,” she whispered. “I can’t bury another child.”

Ron’s face had tilted slightly towards Hermione, as though even in unconsciousness, he was still reaching for her. Hermione’s brow was drawn in a furrow, trapped in some silent nightmare. And Harry—Harry was unreachable, locked in some place even magic could not find.

Then—

A sharp knock broke the silence.

No—not a knock. Tapping. Urgent, frantic tapping against the glass.

Everyone turned.

A wild-eyed owl beat its wings furiously outside the window, a red envelope clutched in its beak.

Bill crossed the room in two quick strides and flung open the window. The owl shot in, dropped the Howler mid-air, and vanished again into the night.

Bill caught it instinctively. “It’s from George,” he said, frowning. “Why would he—?”

But the envelope had already begun to smoulder.

It burst open with a flare of red light.

The voice that issued forth was twisted and cruel—inhuman in its contempt:

“YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD HIDE FROM ME. YOU THOUGHT YOUR LITTLE BLOOD-TRAITOR FAMILY COULD DEFY US. BUT WE SEE EVERYTHING.”

Molly froze. That voice. Cold. Mocking. Poisonous.

“Yaxley,” Percy whispered. “That’s Yaxley.”

“WE HAVE YOUR PRECIOUS SON, GEORGE,” the voice snarled, triumphant. “IF YOU WANT TO SEE HIM ALIVE, BRING POTTER TO THE FORBIDDEN FOREST. YOU HAVE UNTIL MIDNIGHT.”

The Howler erupted into flame and smoke. Ash curled into the air, thick and choking.

Silence returned, darker than before.

The final echo of Yaxley’s voice clung to the air, curling through the room and sinking its claws into every chest. The silence that followed was unbearable—taut and suffocating. Even the hearthfire seemed to retreat, its crackle dulled to a whisper. Only Molly’s soft gasp broke the stillness as she staggered back a step, one hand pressed to her heart.

Bill’s hands trembled as he stared down at the scorched remnants of the Howler. The ashes drifted like black snow, dissolving into the cold air, leaving behind a hollowness that swallowed all warmth from the room.

No one moved. No one spoke. They were suspended in that moment—caught between fear and disbelief, eyes flicking from face to face as though someone might have the answer.

It was Molly who broke the silence, her voice cracked with panic. “M–My George…” Her knees gave slightly, and she caught herself against the table. Her breathing came fast and shallow. “They—they’ve got him—” Her voice faltered, and tears welled in her eyes.

Arthur was beside her in an instant, one hand steady on her shoulder, though his own face was pale and drawn. “We’ve four hours until midnight,” he said grimly, each word landing heavy and deliberate.

Molly blinked, trying to focus. “Why—why would they take George?” she asked, voice thick with dread. “Why—” But she couldn’t finish. The unfinished sentence hung in the air.

Hagrid, still rooted near the wall, crossed his arms tightly. His face was set, shadowed, jaw clenched so tightly the muscles jumped. “Could be a bluff,” he muttered, though his tone lacked conviction. “Yaxley’s always been the sort ter play games. Might be tryin’ ter rattle us.”

He looked down at the blackened ash on the floor. “But it felt real,” he added quietly. “Too real.”

Percy stepped forward, abrupt and determined, slicing through the thick air. “I’ll check the shop,” he said. “George lives above it. If he’s missing—if something’s happened—I’ll find out.”

Bill turned to him sharply. “Are you sure, Percy? If they’re watching—”

“I’m not staying here while he’s out there alone.” Percy’s voice was iron, its edges honed sharp by desperation masked as resolve. “I won’t lose another brother.”

Arthur gave a tight nod. “Go. But stay alert. Apparate from a distance—don’t be seen unless you have to be.”

Percy hesitated just long enough to glance at Molly. Her face was pinched with fear, hands trembling at her sides. Then he was gone with a sharp crack, urgency echoing in the space he left behind.

Arthur turned to the rest. “I have to reach Kingsley. We’ll need backup if this turns into a rescue—and a decoy, if Harry’s still not strong enough to go.”

“But they’ll kill George if Harry doesn’t show!” Molly cried. Her voice rose in anguish, her hands wringing together until her knuckles turned white. “They’ll make an example of him—you heard what he said. Yaxley wants Harry.”

“I know,” Arthur said softly, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him. He took her hands in his, gripping them tightly. “But we can’t walk into this blind. We don’t know what they’ve planned. We have to be careful.”

“Careful won’t save him,” Molly whispered. “Quick might. Action might.”

Arthur kissed her forehead, gently—automatically—but there was little comfort in it. He stepped back, straightened his shoulders, and headed for the door. “I’ll send word as soon as I know anything.”

Then he was gone.

Molly remained still, alone but for Hagrid, who watched her with quiet sympathy. The silence in Shell Cottage deepened, oppressive now.

She drifted towards the window. Each step was uncertain, as if the floor might vanish beneath her feet. She stared out into the night.

The stars were faint, swallowed by clouds. The sea beyond the dunes rolled in black, ink-thick and soundless.

Her breath misted the glass. She didn’t wipe it away.

In her mind, the images spiralled—George grinning in the shop, the sparkle of mischief in his eyes… blood… shadows pulling him away… Yaxley’s voice, again and again: If you want to see him alive…

The tears came silently.

Behind her, Hagrid shifted, shoulders heavy beneath the strain. “We’ll get him back, Molly,” he said softly. “We’ve got ter.”

But she said nothing. She just stood there, staring into the dark, waiting for a flicker of light.

The room Hermione stepped into was dim and circular, uncannily like the first chamber they’d faced in the trials. Shadows clung to the stone walls, flickering with life—as though the room itself were breathing. At its centre stood two towering mirrors, side by side, their silver frames pulsing faintly with light. Each bore a strange, ornate knob in front of it—like a key waiting to be turned.

Hermione took a cautious step forward, her footsteps echoing across the cold floor.

“You took your time,” said Harry sharply. His voice cracked through the quiet. He was standing by the mirrors, arms folded, jaw tight. That familiar spark glinted in his eyes—stubbornness, frustration—but there was something else beneath it. Worry. Or fear.

Hermione rolled her eyes and pushed back her hair. Her voice was clipped. “Sorry I didn’t Apparate through solid stone. I got here as fast as I could.”

“If you were in that much of a hurry,” she added, stepping closer, “you could’ve gone ahead without me.”

“I would’ve,” Harry snapped, sarcasm curling through his words. “Except the room wouldn’t do anything until all three of us were here. You were the missing piece, apparently.”

Her cheeks flushed. She clenched her fists at her sides. “How was I supposed to know that? You think I meant to be late?”

“I didn’t say that,” said Harry—though the accusation hung heavy in the space between them.

“Then stop acting like I did,” she said sharply. Her voice wavered—not from fear, but from something heavier. Tension. Confusion. The creeping weight of something she couldn’t name.

Harry exhaled hard through his nose, then turned away. His cloak flared behind him as he stalked back toward the mirrors.

From the wall, Ginny let out a breath. “Honestly,” she muttered, moving to follow him. “You two are impossible.”

Hermione stood rooted to the spot, her chest rising and falling too quickly. She felt frayed—like something pulled too tight, ready to snap. The visions still clung to her like cobwebs.

“You alright?” came Ron’s voice. Gentle. Steady. He stepped close, watching her with quiet concern.

“I’m fine,” Hermione replied too quickly. The lie scraped her throat on the way out.

Ron didn’t move. “Something happened in the first room. You’ve been off since then.”

Hermione hesitated. Her eyes dropped to the floor. She didn’t want him to see her unravel—didn’t want him to ask the questions she didn’t have answers to. The images still burnt behind her eyes. And that strange, impossible feeling—that knowing Harry not as an enemy but as something else. Closer.

“I… I saw something,” she said at last. Her voice was low, barely audible. “After the first task. A vision. Like a memory. But not mine.”

Ron’s brow furrowed. “What kind of vision?”

Hermione took a breath. Then another. Haltingly, she told him—about the glimpses, the disjointed familiarity, the ache of it. Harry’s face, somehow different. The quiet urgency running through it like a thread. As she spoke, Ron listened in silence, absorbing every word.

When she stopped, he was still. Thoughtful.

“You’ve never had anything like that before?” he asked.

Hermione shook her head. “Highly unlikely I’d conjure Harry Potter as a friend,” she said bitterly. The truth of it stung more than she’d expected.

Ron gave a short, uneasy laugh. “Right. You two barely get through a conversation without drawing wands.”

“Exactly.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe… maybe it wasn’t a memory. What if it’s something else? Something ahead of us.”

She looked at him, startled. “You think it’s the future?”

Ron hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe. Or something like it.”

Hermione was quiet for a moment, then said, “It didn’t feel like something that would happen. It felt like something that is happening. Somewhere. Right now.” She twisted the hem of her sleeve in her fingers. “Does that make any sense?”

Ron nodded slowly. “More than I’d like to admit.”

Hermione’s heart thudded against her ribs.

“The visions started after I gave them the potion,” she said, voice low. “I chose it to help them during the task—to protect them. And then I saw that world.”

“You altered the process,” Ron offered gently. “Maybe that changed something.”

“No, it’s not just that,” Hermione replied, shaking her head. “It felt real. Not imagined. Not conjured. Real.”

A silence stretched between them, taut as wire.

Ron looked at her, eyes steady. “But what can you even do with a vision like that? You said it yourself—it’s another world. A parallel reality, maybe. How would you even begin to reach it?”

Hermione opened her mouth, then hesitated. Her fingers trembled faintly at her sides.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I don’t think the tasks are just puzzles. They’re… showing us something. Connected to something bigger.”

Ron gave a slow nod, though doubt still lingered behind his eyes.

“I believe you,” he said quietly. “But be careful, Hermione. If it’s real—if what you saw exists—you might be closer to something dangerous than you think.”

The chamber was quiet, charged with a low, thrumming energy. Reflections shifted along the stone walls, caught in flickers of uncertain light.

Hermione stood just behind the others, her gaze drawn to the centre of the room—where two towering mirrors loomed like sentinels. One gleamed with smooth, polished silver. The other was duller, unadorned, its surface so clear it felt almost too honest. Each stood before them with an ornate knob at its base, untouched.

The mirror on the left offered no illusions. No magic. Just truth. Hermione caught her own reflection—tired, drawn, alert. Her eyes lingered on the slight tremble in her hands.

But the mirror to the right… It shimmered. Starlight caught in glass. It beckoned, alluring and strange.

Inside, she saw versions of herself layered like pages in a book. Headmistress of Hogwarts. Winner of the International Magical Innovation Award. Her robes were sleek and dark, her chin lifted, her name whispered with admiration. She looked strong. Respected. Remembered.

Then came the voice.

Low. Disembodied. It echoed around them, weightless yet commanding:

“Who are you?”

Hermione’s breath caught.

Harry stood frozen in front of the mirrors, jaw clenched. The question hovered in the air like a spell that hadn’t yet landed. No one answered.

To Hermione’s left, she glimpsed his reflection in the mirror of truth—just Harry. Messy hair. Worn trainers. Unshaven. Cautious green eyes. But the other mirror showed something different—dozens of him, all gleaming with potential. Minister of Magic. Head Auror. Healer. Champion. His robes were perfect. His smile was steady. A Harry who always knew exactly what to do.

Yet still, he didn’t move.

“Does it show the future?” Ginny asked, voice hushed. Her wide eyes moved from mirror to mirror like she was watching stars burn.

“No,” Ron said flatly. But there was something raw beneath the word.

His own reflection in the right mirror burnt with quiet promise—clutching the House Cup, his parents grinning proudly beside him. Another version wore golden robes, the mark of an alchemist. In one, he stood in front of a classroom in professor’s robes, wand raised in mid-lecture. Always someone better.

“But if it’s not the future,” Ginny pressed, “what is it?”

“The mirrors reflect the desires of your heart,” Harry said at last. His voice was distant—almost reluctant. “Not what will be. What you want to be.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted.

The woman in the right mirror was too perfect. Her smile calm, her name etched in books, her life neatly ordered. It wasn’t just admiration she saw—it was proof. Proof she had made something of herself. That she had mattered. That people listened.

She hated how badly she wanted it.

Ginny stepped closer to the mirror of desire, drawn forward like iron to a magnet. In the glass, she soared across a Quidditch pitch in Holyhead green. In another frame, she scribbled in the press box of the Daily Prophet, quill flying, her name at the top of the page.

Her lips parted in awe.

No one spoke.

The room stood silent—but the mirrors whispered everything they’d never dared say aloud.

“Isn’t it strange?” Hermione murmured, tearing her gaze away from the mirrors. “That they’ve given us two. One showing who we are. The other—what we think we want to become. It feels like a choice. Or a test.”

“A path,” Ginny echoed. Her voice was quiet but steady. “One you pick. One you walk.”

Hermione turned back to the left-hand mirror. Her reflection stared back—no less determined, but stripped of illusion. Honest. Unforgiving.

The right mirror glittered with promises. But promises weren’t truth.

Harry scoffed. “You’re overthinking it,” he muttered. His voice was thick with impatience. “The left is nothing. Just the same old version of yourself. The right is where we’re meant to be. Why settle for what you are when you could be more?”

His fixation unsettled her. Hermione glanced at him, frowning. “That’s not the point,” she said quietly. “Don’t you think what we want says something about who we are? Shouldn’t we ask why we want it—before we charge in blindly?”

“Nothing’s stopping you from chasing those things,” Harry replied, tight and clipped. “It doesn’t matter which mirror you look in. You can make it happen.”

“But maybe it does matter,” Hermione said, her voice rising just a fraction. “Maybe this is here to make us question which part of ourselves we trust more—the version we dream about… or the one already standing here.”

Ron shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t argue, but his eyes kept drifting back to the right mirror. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if they ached to reach through the glass. Hermione could see it in his face—that deep, gnawing ache for something more. She felt it, too.

Then Harry’s temper snapped.

“Believe whatever you want,” he said sharply. “I’m done waiting.”

He stepped forward, gripped the brass knob that had appeared at the base of the right mirror, and without another word, vanished. The glass swallowed him whole.

Hermione swore under her breath. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

“He always does this,” she muttered. “Rushes in without thinking.”

Ron gave her a sideways glance, half weary, half fond. “Let him,” he said. “He’s doing what he thinks is right.”

She turned towards him, her eyes narrowed. “But what if it’s not right?”

Before Ron could answer, Ginny stepped forward. She laid a hand on Hermione’s shoulder—gentle, grounding.

“Sometimes the only way to know,” she said, “is to go.”

Her voice was steady. “Besides… we’ve come this far, haven’t we?”

And before Hermione could stop her, Ginny pressed her hand to the mirror on the right—and vanished.

The chamber seemed colder now. Still.

“It’s just you and me,” Ron said softly. He didn’t look at her. His eyes were fixed on the reflections again, flickering quietly in the glass. “I want to go right. But I think your instincts have been better than mine lately. So if you’re going left… I trust you.”

Hermione swallowed, hard. That trust weighed more than she’d expected. Still, she stepped toward the left-hand mirror. The honest one. Her reflection stared back, as if waiting.

She raised a hand, fingers hovering just above the knob.

A breath in. Slow. Measured.

“See you on the other side,” she said. Her voice was steadier than she felt.

And then, with one last glance at Ron, she turned the knob—and vanished.

Ron stepped after her without hesitation.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the world spun. Light fractured into shards, colour bleeding into colour. A dizzying rush. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The air buzzed, alive with something ancient and unseen.

Then—

Visions.

They came at him all at once.

Flashes of lives. Moments he didn’t remember. Faces he’d never seen—yet somehow knew. Some scenes passed like smoke. Others hit like a blow to the chest. Too vivid. Too real.

He stumbled, his hand catching against the wall, lungs dragging in air like he’d run a mile.

And then, finally, the spinning stopped.

Hermione was already there.

She stood just ahead of him, her expression caught between awe—and something else. Something heavier. Sadness, maybe.

“D—did you see it too?” she asked. Her voice was barely a whisper.

Ron nodded slowly, still catching his breath. “Yeah. I did.”

The images flickered in his mind—strange, vivid, too sharp to be imagined. “At first I thought I was making it up. But then… there were too many. And they made sense.”

Hermione stepped closer. Her eyes searched his face. “What exactly did you see?”

He swallowed. The words felt odd in his mouth—like confessing a secret he hadn’t known he’d kept. “It was Hogwarts. Me and Harry, but… different. We were friends. Proper friends. In Gryffindor. Laughing, sneaking out, and fighting trolls. It didn’t feel like a memory, but it felt… mine. I can’t explain it.”

Hermione let out a shaky breath, half shock, half relief. “It’s not just you, then,” she said. “This is bigger than I thought.”

Ron hesitated. “I saw Harry too… But he looked ill. Pale. Mum was with him. She was taking care of him like he was family. Like he belonged with us.”

Hermione’s expression shifted—recognition flickering behind her eyes. “I saw something like that too. A book—Anima. I watched myself reading it. Another version of me. Have you heard of it?”

Ron frowned. “Anima means ‘soul’.” He didn’t know where the memory had come from.

Hermione nodded slowly. “I think these visions aren’t side effects. They’re connected to the choices we’re making. Every time we go off-script—every time we choose differently—the visions get stronger. Like we’re being… guided.”

“To what?” Ron asked. “Another world?”

“Not necessarily another world,” she said, careful now. “But maybe a version of this one. A different strand. That Harry I saw… he was different. Open-hearted. Kind. He stood up for people. Blood status didn’t matter to him. It was like—like he was part of a world built on better choices.”

Ron looked down the corridor where Harry had gone. His footsteps were long gone, swallowed by stone and silence. “I know what you mean. That Harry… I liked him.” He winced. “More than the one we’ve got. Sounds awful, doesn’t it?”

“No,” Hermione said softly. “It sounds honest.”

They walked in silence. Torches hissed on the walls, casting long shadows. When Ginny and Harry came into view ahead, Hermione slowed.

Ron turned. “What is it?”

She didn’t speak straight away. Her gaze was distant, as though listening to something only she could hear.

“I felt it,” she whispered. “I wasn’t just seeing the vision—I was in it. I heard them speaking.”

Ron felt a chill at the base of his spine. “Heard what?”

Hermione looked down, then met his eyes again—hesitant, but steady. “I think Harry’s soul is damaged,” she said.

The words dropped like a stone.

Ron stared at her. “What do you mean, ‘damaged’?”

“I saw us—me, you, maybe Ginny too—performing a spell. Something powerful. Healing magic, maybe. We weren’t just watching. We were fixing something. And I think…” She faltered. “I think the world we’re in—it’s not the real one. Or it’s less real than what we saw.”

Ron frowned. “Hermione, that’s… a lot. We’re here. We’re breathing. This feels real.”

“I know,” she said quickly. “But the visions—there’s something clearer about them. Like everything’s more… aligned. The people. The choices. The magic. It’s like the tasks are giving us a glimpse of what could’ve been—or what still can be—if we find the right way through.”

Ron didn’t speak at first. He just looked at her.

She held his gaze, unflinching.

She meant it.

“Try it,” Hermione urged. “Let yourself fall into the memory. Don’t fight it. Just feel it. There’s something in there, Ron. Something important.”

Ron drew a shaky breath. The corridor faded at the edges. His heartbeat slowed. And then—he let go.

Darkness folded in, full of colour and sound. He didn’t resist. He let it take him.

He saw Harry—thin, ghost-pale, lying in bed. His breathing was shallow. Hermione and Ginny sat beside him, faces drawn, their worry unspoken but thick in the air. Harry looked up at them and smiled—not a smirk, not his usual front. Something quieter. Fragile.

“Thank you,” he said, voice like water behind glass. “For everything. I don’t know what comes next, but—”

The scene shifted like a page turning too fast.

Ron leaned in, desperate to hold onto it. Another vision surged into focus.

They were standing in a circle. Drinking something luminous—a potion that pulsed like starlight. As they swallowed it, silver light spilt from their chests—wisps of magic, of self. Of soul. The light drifted towards Harry, seated at the centre. It wrapped around him like a shroud. Or a shield. Or a second chance.

Then—darkness again.

Ron gasped, snapping back to the corridor. The torchlight stung his eyes. His chest was tight.

Hermione was watching him. Expectant. Hopeful.

“I saw it,” he said, voice rough. “All of it.”

“And?” she asked quietly.

He hesitated. “I don’t know what it means yet. But it feels like… everything we do now matters more than we thought.”

Hermione nodded. “Exactly.”

They moved forward—closer to answers neither could yet name.

The four of them stepped into a new chamber. It burst with light. The ceiling soared—vaulted like a cathedral, or the open sky above a Quidditch pitch. It felt like stepping into a memory not quite theirs: golden, vast, and full of something half-remembered.

Four broomsticks hovered in the air.

A golden Snitch darted past them with a whispering hum, its wings flashing like water in sunlight.

Ron’s eyes followed it, half entranced. But Hermione’s words still echoed, cold and heavy in his chest:

Harry’s soul is damaged.

The phrase stuck, clinging to his thoughts like burrs. He didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t want to.

He turned toward Hermione to ask—but she spoke first, still watching the Snitch. “Should we catch it?”

Her voice wavered, just slightly. Enough for Ron to hear the doubt underneath.

“I think so,” Ginny answered, more quiet than sure.

Hermione scanned the ceiling, frowning—as if the chamber might shift beneath their feet or the Snitch might dissolve.

Without a word, Harry mounted his broom and kicked off. He soared upwards in one fluid motion, effortless and unbothered.

Ron watched him go.

Harry always jumped first—like the unknown never weighed anything. But for Ron, it did. Doubt. Fear. Questions.

He turned to Hermione, the words spilling out. “In the corridor—I saw what you saw. Harry thanking us. We drank something. Cast a spell. It meant something.”

“What are you two babbling about?” Ginny cut in sharply. Her voice carried more than irritation—defence, maybe.

Ron flinched. He hadn’t realised she’d been listening.

“It’s going to sound mad,” he said, “but after the tasks—something’s been happening. Visions. Versions of us… together. As friends.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “A vision. And what exactly did you see in this fantasy of yours?”

Hermione didn’t blink. “We were close. All of us. Connected. And Harry… he was hurt. Not just his body. His soul. It’s fractured.”

Ginny laughed—a sharp, cold sound that echoed too loudly in the vast chamber. “Of course you’d say that. You don’t even like him, Hermione. You never have. And now suddenly you care about his soul? Please. Sounds like you’re just trying to get inside his head. Gain some kind of advantage.”

Ron felt his face flush. “She’s not making it up. I saw it too.”

Ginny crossed her arms, floating just above the others, suspended between disbelief and irritation. “Then maybe you’re both losing it.”

“We’re not,” Ron said, the words tumbling out fast. “We saw him—Harry. Sick. You and Hermione were with him. We gave him something… magic, I think. Light. Like we were healing him. It felt real. Like it mattered.”

Ginny scoffed, but he pressed on. “Think, Gin. Doesn’t this world feel… off to you? Like it doesn’t quite add up?”

“No,” she snapped, swinging onto her broom with practised ease. “What feels off is you two flying off into delusions. We’ve got a task. That’s what’s real.”

She kicked off, rising sharply into the air, the wind swallowing the space she’d left behind.

Ron turned to Hermione, frustrated. “She’s not going to listen.”

Hermione grabbed a broom, her jaw set. “Then we make her.”

They rose together, chasing Ginny upward through the wide chamber. The golden Snitch darted and flashed above them like a challenge—or a warning.

“Ginny!” Hermione called, her voice snatched by the wind. “Please! Just listen!”

Ginny wheeled around midair, her eyes fierce. “Stop it! I don’t want your pity—or your philosophy. I’m notbroken. And neither is Harry!”

“This isn’t about pity,” Hermione shouted. “It’s about the truth! We saw it!”

“You saw what you wanted to see!” Ginny shot back. “If you hate your life, that’s not my problem!”

Ron pushed his broom faster, drawing level with her. “What if this isn’t the life we’re meant to have? What if something—or someone—changed us? Changed him? Doesn’t that scare you?”

She scowled, her grip tightening. “And what—you want to burn down the world because of a dream?”

“No,” Ron said, voice steady. “We want to save someone we all care about. Even you.”

For a moment, Ginny’s glare held. But then something shifted. The edge softened—just barely. Doubt crept in around the corners.

“We think this world is… off,” Hermione said gently. “Bent around Harry somehow. The version of him we saw… he was kinder. He stood up for people. He was more.”

Silence stretched between them. The Snitch hovered, forgotten, glinting in the light.

Ginny looked from Hermione to Ron, her expression unreadable. “And what do you expect me to do? Just… believe you?”

“Yes,” Ron said. “Trust us. Trust yourself. Deep down, you know something’s wrong.”

She hovered in place for a beat longer, suspended in indecision. Then—she nodded. Small. Reluctant. But real.

“Fine,” she said. “What now?”

Ron exhaled. “Let it in. The memory. The vision. Don’t fight it.”

Hermione drifted closer, her broom steady. “This is just the beginning, Ginny. But we can change things. Together.”

Far above, Harry soared.

The wind tore through his hair, cold and sharp. His broom hummed beneath him, vibrating with each twist and dive. He wasn’t flying for glory. Not anymore.

He flew like something was chasing him. Or like something inside him was falling apart.

He chased the Snitch like it had stolen something he hadn’t realised he’d lost.

The Snitch flickered in and out of sight—a golden blur, taunting him with its freedom. No matter how sharply he turned or how tightly he gripped the broom, it slipped away. Like it knew him. Like it understood exactly how badly he wanted to catch it—not for points, not for glory, but to prove something. To feel in control of anything.

Below, laughter drifted up from the others. Harry glanced down and blinked.

Ginny was laughing.

She was chatting—with Ron and Hermione, of all people. All three of them hovered in loose formation, as if they were out for a scenic tour, not racing through a task.

It looked like a different world. One where things made sense. Just… not to him.

He gritted his teeth and snapped his gaze back to the sky. Focus. He was tired of being the one in the dark while everyone else floated above it like it wasn’t even there.

“Focus, Harry,” he muttered. The words hit heavier than they should have, like a spell cast wrong.

His thoughts drifted—green firelight, cold stone, the quiet logic of the Slytherin common room. Pride. Power. Control. Things that didn’t slip through your fingers.

And yet here you are, something whispered, chasing something you’ll never catch.

A spark of gold danced at the edge of his vision.

His breath caught. There.

He dived.

Muscles coiled, broom tilting hard. The wind roared past—but before he could close the gap, Ginny streaked past him. A flash of red hair, a clean line of motion. She flew like she belonged in the air. Like the sky bent around her.

Harry leaned in harder. His pride flared hot in his chest.

She won’t beat me. Not today.

They flew neck and neck. For a breathless second, they were aligned—shoulder to shoulder, heartbeat to heartbeat. Her eyes locked on the Snitch.

His eyes were on everything.

On her.

On Ron and Hermione, drifting so easily below.

On the hollow inside him that nothing seemed to fill.

Then the Snitch veered left. Sharp. Sudden.

Harry reacted too fast.

His broom jerked violently. The sky tilted. His grip slipped.

For one terrifying moment, he was no longer flying—just falling.

His fingers scrabbled for the handle, but his weight was already off-balance. Wind screamed past. The world spun. His heart slammed into his ribs. No one saw. No one was watching.

Except her.

A blur of red.

Then—contact.

A hand closed around his wrist, firm and shaking and real.

“Hang on, Harry!” Ginny’s voice tore through the wind like a lifeline.

She yanked hard. The force nearly took them both down, but she held fast. Her broom knocked into his, rough and urgent, and somehow—they stayed up.

They hovered.

Chest to chest. Breathless.

Their eyes met.

And for a moment, there were no questions. No tasks. No winning.

Just truth.

She had caught him. Not because she had to. Not because he was famous. Not for the points.

Because he was falling.

And she chose to catch him.

Silence stretched between them, taut and quiet.

Then Harry exhaled, voice raw.

“Thanks.”

She didn’t answer at first.

She was staring at him, something shifting behind her eyes—uncertainty giving way to realisation. A thread stretched taut between them. Old and new. Familiar and strange.

Then she blinked.

And Harry saw it—felt it—like a storm breaking open behind her eyes.

Whatever Ron and Hermione had said, whatever they’d seen—it reached her now. The doubt that had lingered at the edges of her mind bloomed into something vivid and undeniable.

Her breath caught.

And Harry watched her come undone and knit back together in the same heartbeat.

Then her gaze went distant. Her body stilled.

Like a door inside her had opened.

She saw something.

He didn’t know what.

But whatever it was—it had begun.

Harry hovered in place, broom wavering slightly under him. The air felt wrong, like pressure dropping before a storm. Something was off.

Ginny wasn’t moving.

She floated a few metres away, her broom swaying like it was caught in a current he couldn’t feel. Her eyes were wide. Glassy. Lips parted, whispering nothing. She wasn’t really here.

A cold knot twisted in his chest.

He scanned the pitch. Ron and Hermione hovered nearby, equally pale. Their faces were full of something unspoken—fear, sorrow, recognition. They looked like people waking up from a dream they didn’t want to remember.

Harry’s pulse kicked faster.

He edged toward Ginny.

“Ginny?” he said, voice strained. He reached out, fingers brushing her shoulder. Her skin was cold. She trembled.

No response.

“Ginny.” Louder now. He shook her gently.

She jolted—just a flicker of life. Her eyes blinked rapidly, like she was trying to come back into focus.

And then he saw them.

Tears.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… there. Falling steadily down her cheeks.

“Are you okay?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Before she could speak, broomsticks cut the air behind him. Ron and Hermione drifted closer, both ghost-pale, eyes glassy.

Harry turned on them. “What’s happening? Is this some kind of trick?”

The silence that followed felt alive.

Then Ginny spoke, voice barely more than air. “This… this isn’t real.”

Harry frowned. “What are you talking about?”

She looked at him then. Fully. Her expression shattered.

“I can hear him,” she whispered. “I can feel his pain.”

His stomach flipped. “Whose pain?”

She shook her head, wiping her face with her sleeve, hands trembling.

“This is insane,” Harry muttered. “You all look like you’ve gone mad.” He turned to Ron and Hermione, frustration spiking. “What are you doing? What is this?”

Hermione stepped forward. Her voice was calm, but heavy. “Harry… we saw you. In a vision. Or memory. You were ill.”

His throat tightened. “What does that even mean?” His voice turned sharp. “You’re not making any sense.”

Ron added quietly, “You weren’t yourself. It was like something was eating you alive.”

Ginny let out a quiet sob. “You were in pain. Alone. Trapped in something you couldn’t get out of.”

Harry reeled back. “I feel fine! I am fine! Why are you trying to convince me otherwise?” His broom drifted back a few inches, like even it didn’t know where to go. “Is this part of the task? Some kind of mind game?”

“It’s not a task,” Ron said. “It’s the truth.”

Harry looked between them. Ginny. Hermione. Ron. Their faces held something ancient and unbearable.

“It’s a lie,” Ginny whispered, her voice cracking. “This world. All of it. You’re not awake, Harry. You’re trapped. Somewhere far away. We didn’t know at first. I didn’t want to believe it. But it’s true.”

She met his eyes.

“I saw it.”

Harry’s breathing was sharp now, unsteady.

“This is mad,” he said, arms folded tight across his chest. His voice was flat, but there was tension in it, beneath it. “You’re just trying to throw me off. Distract me. Is that what this is? Sabotage?”

“No one’s trying to sabotage anything,” said Hermione quietly. “We’re trying to help you. Trying to wake you up.”

He let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Wake me up? From what? I nearly caught the Snitch. You saw it. I’m winning, Hermione.”

He spun round, eyes raking the sky—and there it was. The Snitch. Hovering near the far post, glinting gold in the sun.

Without waiting for a response, Harry shot forward. Wind tore at his robes. The broom juddered beneath him as he leaned into the chase. The Snitch veered once—twice—but it was too late.

Snap.

His hand closed around it, cool and delicate in his fingers. A thrill surged through him—satisfaction, certainty.

He turned in the air, hovering now, breathless.

“Well?” he called, voice echoing round the pitch. “Looks like I’m the only one still playing the game.”

But there was no applause. No cheers.

Just Ron, Hermione and Ginny, all still, all watching him with the same expression—quiet, stricken, as though something had already been lost.

Hermione’s gaze was steady. “We’re not trying to win, Harry,” she said. “We’re trying to save you.”

He blinked at her, frowning.

“Save me?” he echoed. “From what—being good at what I do?”

“From a life that’s not yours,” said Ron. “From a lie. We think—look, we think someone’s put you here. Inside this. Whatever it is. A spell, maybe. A trap. Something that’s keeping you under.”

Harry shook his head. “Right. And you lot are just so certain you’ve got the truth, are you?”

Ginny spoke, barely louder than the wind. “You never believe it. Not at first.”

“Don’t start with me,” he snapped, eyes flaring. “All of you—this is mad. You’re telling me none of this is real? That I’m what, dreaming? Cursed? Is that really what you expect me to swallow?”

Hermione didn’t move. Her voice stayed calm. “You don’t have to understand it. Not yet. But we’ve seen things, Harry. Felt things. Please—just let us help you.”

She reached out a hand.

Harry recoiled as though she’d struck him.

“What do you know about me?” he said, voice rising. “You think you can come in here and turn everything upside down? I’ve done just fine on my own.”

Ron stepped forward, hands slightly raised. “No, you haven’t. You think you have, because this place—it gives you what you want. Control. Praise. But it’s not real. And deep down, you know it.”

Harry’s eyes darkened. “I’m not listening to this.”

“Harry—” Ginny tried again, her voice hoarse.

He turned on her, sharp and sudden. “Back off, Weasley.”

She flinched. He saw it—and for a split second, it jolted something in him.

But it passed.

“It’s not a threat,” she said, barely audible. “It’s just the truth.”

He jabbed a finger towards her. “If you don’t stop this—if you keep pushing—I will make you regret it.”

Silence.

The kind that rang in your ears.

The wind stirred the hem of Ginny’s robes. Her eyes never left his. There was no anger in them—only something quieter, something sadder.

Harry turned.

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t look back.

He held the Snitch in one clenched fist and flew hard towards the edge of the pitch, away from their voices, away from their eyes.

Away from the thing inside him that, if he let it rise, might whisper that they were right.