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Chapter Text

Harry’s eyes opened first. The motion, methodical and unrelenting, jolted memories of battles long past back into his bones. Beside him, Ron lay curled against the glass, shoulders rising and falling in even, unconscious breaths. Relief fluttered briefly in Harry’s chest—no pain, no screams—but it was gone before he could name it. He glanced at his wristwatch: 11:00 AM.

Ron shifted, sending a light gust of cold air across Harry’s arm.

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered, voice thick with sleep. “Again.”

He tapped his boot against the bench, the hollow thump echoing like the beat of a distant drum. “I’d rather face a Hungarian Horntail than loop again.”

“Careful with what you wish for,” Harry replied, voice low. They sat in silence, shoulders almost touching, haunted by the weight of countless loops. Neither spoke—for now, stillness was easier than naming defeat.

He pressed his palm against the cold iron bench, fingers brushing over a faint dent, an echo of countless loops. Yet the carriage felt impossibly new: the chatter of first years, the clatter of trunks in the corridor, the sweet tang of chocolate frogs. Eleven again and supposed to know nothing beyond this ride’s first thrill.

Harry glanced at Ron, their bodies shrinking into school robes far too big. Ron’s eyes were wide; cheeks flushed with excitement. Normally Ron would be the one to crack a joke about finding a seat, but now he stared at the empty compartment as if discovering it for the first time.

Moments later, Hermione Granger slipped inside, cloak clasped tight, hands clutching her bag’s strap. The compartment door slid shut with a hiss, steam curling like a sharp intake of breath. Harry flinched as if he had heard Hermione’s final gasp before falling under the killing curse, her life snatched away before his own could slip free.

The iron bench beneath him clanged against the carriage frame, a hollow sound that snapped Harry back to the moment Ron’s chest exploded under the Bombarda Curse. He pressed his palm to the metal, feeling the echo of bone fracturing, tasting copper on his tongue.

A sudden shudder rippled through the coach as wheels rattled over a joint in the rail. Each tremor hammered at Harry’s ribs like the pulse of Ron’s last roar, a pain he could not outrun even in a loop. He closed his eyes, breathing through the stench of burning robes that still clung to his memory.

He opened one eye. Across from him, Ron lay curled against the window, oblivious to the past bleeding into the present. A thin wisp of mist trailed from Ron’s lips—a ghost of breath that reminded Harry of frosty air swirling above Hermione’s lips in the courtyard before she fell.

Harry glanced at his wristwatch: 11:05 AM. The same moment, again. Relief flickered briefly, no pain, no final words, only to flare into dread. This loop felt different. This time, they had died first.

Hermione paused, observing Harry then sank opposite. With a quick flick, she opened her satchel and drew out a heavy sheet of parchment and three quills.

Harry and Ron exchanged a brief, knowing glance. Neither spoke. They leaned back against the bench, determination settling over them like a silent pact. They knew Hermione needed this quiet, and neither of them felt like talking yet.

Hermione dipped her quill. The scratch of ink on parchment became the compartment’s only soundtrack. Harry tracked the curl of each letter; Ron watched Hermione’s brow crease in concentration. Not once did either of them break the hush.

Timeline (Years 1–7)

• Y1: Prevent Voldemort from obtaining the Philosopher’s Stone and dispose of the troll.
• Y2: Steal the diary the moment Lucius Malfoy places it in Ginny’s cauldron and slay the basilisk.
• Y3: Capture Peter Pettigrew and free Sirius Black immediately, ensuring a Third Year without Dementor attacks.
• Y4: Let Harry’s name emerge from the Goblet of Fire but devise a way to save Cedric Diggory.
• Y5: Convince the wizarding world that Voldemort has returned and oust Dolores Umbridge.
• Y6: Destroy every Horcrux as soon as possible.
• Y7: End the time loop and defeat Voldemort and his Death Eaters for good.

Objectives This Loop

1. Safeguard allies at each key time.
2. Conceal our true familiarity and ages until necessary.
3. Neutralize lethal threats pre-emptively.
4. Secure safehouses before major conflict.
5. Isolate and extract Horcrux fragments.

Essential Spells & Defenses

• Blood-ward Rune (Hermione’s variant).
• Fiendfyre × Basilisk-venom protocol.
• Enhanced Protego Maxima & Foe-Glass calibration.

Horcrux Strategy

1. Combine basilisk venom and fiendfyre on each fragment.
2. Get every accessible Horcrux as soon as possible.
3. Create a containment box preventing Horcrux contamination.

As Hermione crossed out Y3 with a thick stroke, her brow furrowed. She jotted above it in tighter script: “Do this as soon as possible—no waiting for Year 3.” At Y4, her nib hovered. She circled “Goblet of Fire” and added in the margin: “Should we even let Harry’s name be drawn, or find a way to avoid the Cup entirely?”

When her quill clicked empty, she set the parchment on her lap, pulse throbbing at her throat.

“Why aren’t you two saying anything?” she whispered, voice barely more than breath. Harry’s jaw twitched. His green eyes darkened as he drew in a slow breath. Ron’s fingers curled into a fist at his side, white knuckles in the lamplight.

“What happened this time? How did you die?” Hermione’s voice trembled.

Harry closed his eyes. He pressed a palm to his chest, where his heart pounded like a war drum. “You don’t remember… because you both died before me.”

Hermione’s skin went ashen. “What—?”

He swallowed, voice raw. “I let him kill me. Voldemort. Avada Kedavra. I chose the loop over endless grief.”

Hermione sprang up, quills rattling against the bench. “You—are you insane? You gambled on despair? What if we hadn’t come back?”

Ron reached out, catching her elbow. For a heartbeat, her lip quivered as she met his steady gaze. Then she wrenched free and began to pace, ink-stained fingers twisting at her sleeve. “We still don’t know how to break the loop.”

Harry’s dark humour cut through the tension. “One thing’s certain… I’m a Horcrux. Something in me is tethering us here.”

Hermione sank back down, breath coming in ragged gasps. Her finger traced the tiny infinity loop in the margin of the timeline. “Then the loop must be tied to the Horcrux magic. If we destroy it…”

Ron leaned forward, voice hushed but unwavering. “We’ll get it right this time. We protect everyone first. No one dies this year: first through seventh. Then we find a way to extract or destroy the piece of soul inside Harry.”

Harry turned to the window’s reflection and traced his lightning-bolt scar with a fingertip. A tingle raced up his arm, as if the mark were an unbroken sigil beneath his skin.

Ron grinned, that old spark alight again. “Team Weasley–Granger–Potter?”

Hermione offered a tired but genuine smile. “The famous golden trio.”

A tentative knock rattled the partition. Neville Longbottom’s head poked in, wide-eyed and clutching a toad-sized cage to his chest.

“I—I think Trevor slipped out,” Neville stammered, voice barely above a whisper. “M-my toad… I lost him. Have you seen him?”

Hermione looked up from her parchment, expression softening. “You might try a prefect. They know the train inside out and can even cast a tracking charm on familiars.”

Neville’s shoulders eased a fraction. “Oh—right. Thanks.”

Hermione set her quill aside and gave him a small, friendly nod. “By the way, I’m Hermione Granger.” She nodded toward Harry. “This is Harry Potter…”

Harry lifted a hand in a gentle wave. “Hello.”

Hermione then indicated Ron. “And this is Ron Weasley.”

Ron grinned and gave Neville a quick wave.

Neville blinked, relief and awe mixing on his face. “I’m Neville Longbottom… Nice to meet you all.”

Harry gave him an encouraging smile. “Good luck finding Trevor. Ask a prefect, they’ll point you in the right direction.”

“Thanks,” Neville whispered, and slipped back into the corridor, the door clicking softly behind him.

Moments later, the door swung open again. Draco Malfoy glided in, Crabbe and Goyle looming at his elbows. He cast a calculating glance around the compartment before fixing Harry with a smirk.

“I’m looking for Harry Potter,” Draco announced, voice smooth as silk. He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Is the famous Harry Potter here?”

Harry sat up, meeting Draco’s gaze evenly. Before Draco could continue, he added, “Don’t trouble yourself, Malfoy.”

Draco feigned surprise, extending a hand with exaggerated politeness. “Surely you’d like friends of better standing than—well, these,” he said, jerking his chin toward Ron and Hermione. “I could introduce you to a more… exclusive circle.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. He pushed to his feet, robes brushing the floor. “Keep your introductions, and your circle. I know exactly who I’m lucky to have.”

Draco’s smirk faltered. He straightened, eyes flashing. “You’ll regret this insolence, Potter.” With a sharp nod to Crabbe and Goyle, he stormed off, the other two scuttling in his wake.

Silence enveloped the carriage. Ron exhaled, voice low. “First years and already he’s insufferable.”

They sank back against the bench. Hermione’s quill scratched out Year Seven, underlining the words with fierce precision. Outside, rolling fields of green whispered of Hogsmeade’s approach, so familiar, yet tinged with future horrors they dared to prevent.

Ron cracked a grin. “Neville still loses Trevor on the train.”

Hermione tapped her quill twice. “And Draco’s arrogance never pales.”

Harry traced the window frame. “Some things never change.”

The whistle blew, high and hopeful. Steam threaded through the compartment as the train slipped into a tunnel of possibilities. Eleven-year-olds armed with knowledge no first-year should possess, they rose together, ready to rewrite every step of their journey and, at last, break the unyielding rhythm of time.

Chapter Text

The boats waited like silent sentinels, bobbing gently against the dock as the lake exhaled a cool mist. Lanterns swung from curved iron hooks, casting golden halos across the water’s surface. Harry stepped into the nearest vessel, the wood groaning softly beneath his weight. Ron followed, boots thudding against the planks, then Hermione with her cloak drawn tight. Neville hesitated before climbing in, clutching Trevor’s cage to his chest like a talisman.

The boat rocked once, then began its slow glide across the lake. The water was impossibly still, a mirror of stars and shadows. Mist curled around them, soft and silver, blurring the edges of the world. The castle loomed ahead, its towers rising like ancient watchmen, windows glowing with warm, amber light.

Harry leaned back, letting the chill air brush against his cheeks. His fingers curled around the edge of the boat, knuckles pale. “Every time,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the lapping water, “it still feels like magic.”

Ron’s gaze was fixed on the silhouette of Hogwarts, his expression unreadable. “Majestic as ever,” he said, then added with a dry edge, “until the curses start flying.”

Hermione gave a soft laugh, but her eyes lingered on the Astronomy Tower. Her breath caught for a moment, and Harry knew she was remembering the courtyard, the frost on her lips, the silence after her fall. “Even after everything,” she whispered, “it still takes my breath away.”

Neville blinked at them, puzzled. “You’ve never seen it before, have you?”

Harry turned to him, offering a gentle smile. “Feels like we have.”

The castle emerged fully from the mist, its spires piercing the twilight like blades. The boats drifted toward the shore, and Harry felt the familiar ache in his chest, hope, dread, and the weight of too many beginnings. The same awe, the same beauty. But beneath it all, the same ghosts.

They climbed the stone steps in a hush, first-years jostling nervously around them. The castle loomed above, ancient, and unyielding. McGonagall stood at the top, robes crisp, gaze sharp as ever. Her presence was like a gust of chilly wind, commanding, precise, and oddly comforting.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” she said, voice firm and clear. “You will soon be sorted into your houses. Please follow me.”

Ron leaned toward Harry, his voice low. “She’s always the first to suspect something.”

Hermione smirked, though her eyes remained wary. “She probably sees the Marauders in us.”

Harry’s gaze flicked to McGonagall’s face. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes lingered on them a beat too long, curious —perhaps— or quietly calculating. She’d never guess the truth, Harry thought. Not the loops. Not the deaths. Not the way we’ve lived a hundred lives inside these walls.

They followed her through the towering doors, the stone echoing beneath their feet. The castle smelled of wax and parchment, of old magic and secrets buried deep. Harry felt the weight of every loop pressing against his ribs, the memory of every time they had walked this path, sometimes victorious, sometimes broken.

The Great Hall opened like a cathedral of light. Candles floated above, flickering gently beneath the enchanted ceiling, which mirrored the dusk sky in shades of violet and indigo. The long tables gleamed with polished wood and empty plates, waiting. At the front, on its familiar stool, sat the Sorting Hat, creased, ancient, and very much alive.

A hush fell over the room as the Hat stirred. Its brim twitched, and then it began to sing, voice rich and resonant, echoing off the stone walls with a cadence older than any student present:

“I’m stitched with spells and brim with lore,
I’ve sorted minds for years galore.
Upon this stool I sit once more
To guide your fate through Hogwarts’ door.

I’ve seen the rise, I’ve watched the fall,
I’ve heard the whispers in these halls.
I know your hearts, your hopes, your fears
I’ve sorted souls for countless years.

So, lend an ear, and hear me speak,
Of houses bold and virtues unique.

Gryffindor, where courage burns,
Where daring hearts take wild turns.
They charge ahead through fire and fight,
For honour, truth, and what is right.

Slytherin, with cunning grace,
Ambition carved in every face.
They plot and plan with sharpened minds,
And chase the power others find.

Ravenclaw, the wise and keen,
Where intellect is always seen.
They seek the stars, the ancient runes,
And ponder truths beneath the moon.

Hufflepuff, so often dismissed,
Yet loyal hearts should not be missed.
They toil with care, they stand their ground,
In quiet strength, they’re truly sound.

But mark me now, while you are young,
The world is more than house and bonds.
For though you wear your colours proud,
The storm ahead is dark and loud.

So, choose your path with open eyes,
And do not fall for shallow ties.
The future waits, the threads unwind
Let unity not lag behind.

Destiny is not a game,
Nor bound to blood, nor bound to name.
The bravest hearts may walk alone
But only together can peace be grown.

Four houses stand, both proud and true,
But unity must guide what you do.
Choose not by blood, nor fame, nor might
But by the soul that seeks the light.”

The final note hung in the air like smoke. A few first-years clapped hesitantly. Most just stared, wide-eyed and unsure.

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “That was… pointed.”

Ron leaned in. “Unity and destiny? Sounds like it’s been reading our notes.”

Harry did not speak. He watched the Hat, wondering, not for the first time, if it remembered. If it knew. If it had seen them loop through time, death, and choice, and was trying, in its own cryptic way, to help.

“Maybe it’s just being dramatic,” Ron muttered. “It is a hat.”

Hermione did not answer. Her eyes remained fixed on the stool.

“Granger, Hermione.”

Hermione stepped forward, head high, shoulders squared. The Hat barely touched her brow before shouting, “Gryffindor!”

She walked past Harry and Ron, her eyes flicking with unspoken tension. Her seat at the Gryffindor table felt both familiar and foreign, like a memory she had not earned yet.

“Potter, Harry.”

He stepped forward, heart thudding. The stool was cold beneath him, the Hat heavy as it slid over his head. Its voice curled into his thoughts like smoke.

“Ah, Mr. Potter. Again. Why not try something new this time?”

Harry did not flinch. “We did. Once. I went to Slytherin. Ron stayed in Gryffindor. Hermione chose Ravenclaw. We convinced Neville to try Hufflepuff.”

The Hat hummed, intrigued. “And?”

“It fractured everything. Unity didn’t come. The loop fought back. The more we diverged, the more chaos followed.”

A pause. Then a sigh, almost weary. “Very well. Gryffindor.”

The Hat was lifted. Harry walked to the table, Hermione’s eyes meeting his with quiet understanding. She did not smile, but her gaze held something stronger, resolve.

“Weasley, Ron.”

Ron strode up, grin crooked, shoulders loose. The Hat barely hesitated. “Gryffindor!”

He plopped down beside Harry, nudging him with an elbow. “Back where we belong.”

Harry gave a faint smile, but his eyes were scanning the hall. He watched the other tables—Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff—and remembered the loop where they had tried to change everything. It had not worked. Some paths resisted rewriting.

Neville was called next. He stumbled forward, nearly dropping Trevor’s cage, and sat stiffly beneath the Hat. After a brief pause, it called, “Gryffindor!”

Neville beamed, cheeks flushed with pride. “I got Gryffindor too!”

Hermione smiled. “Let’s keep it simple this time.”

The feast began, laughter rising like steam. Platters appeared, golden goblets filled, and the hall buzzed with joy. But beneath the clatter of plates and the hum of conversation, the trio sat with quiet resolve.

Harry’s fingers traced the edge of his goblet, eyes distant. Ron picked at his roast, brow furrowed. Hermione watched the ceiling, stars flickering above her like distant memories.

They were back. The loop had reset. And this time, they would get it right.

***

The Gryffindor common room glowed with firelight and nostalgia. Portraits whispered among themselves, and the shadows danced like old ghosts across the stone walls. The trio climbed the spiral staircase in silence, each step echoing with memories they had not made yet, at least not in this loop.

Ron peeled off toward his dormitory, yawning. “See you in the morning.”

Harry lingered at the doorway to the boys’ room, but Hermione did not move. She stood beside him, arms folded, gaze fixed on the flickering hearth below.

“I don’t want to sleep yet,” she said quietly.

Harry nodded and led her inside. The dormitory was unchanged, five four-poster beds, deep red curtains, golden tassels. The windows looked out over the dark grounds, and the moon hung low, pale, and watchful.

All the boys were already fast asleep, their breathing steady and oblivious. No one stirred as Hermione slipped in and perched on the edge of Harry’s bed, her fingers laced tightly in her lap.

“The Hat’s song… it wasn’t just poetic. It was a warning.”

Harry knelt by his trunk, fingers brushing the latch. He had not opened it yet. Something about it felt… off. Like it had been packed by someone else.

He lifted the lid slowly.

Inside, beneath his robes and books, was a small wooden box. No markings. No lock. Just smooth, dark wood, and a faint scent of ash.

Hermione leaned closer. “That wasn’t there before.”

Harry nodded. “Not in any loop.”

He opened the box.

Inside was a single object: a silver coin, tarnished and warm to the touch. On one side, etched with eerie precision, was the symbol of the Deathly Hallows—the triangle, the circle, the line. On the other, a skeletal hand reaching upward from beneath a veil, fingers curled as if beckoning.

Hermione recoiled slightly. “That’s a death mark. Not just symbolic. That’s ritual magic.”

Harry stared at the coin. “Why would this be in my trunk?”

Hermione’s voice was low, urgent. “The Hallows exist in every loop. But we only learned about them in the last one. Before that, they were just... stories buried in myth. You had the Cloak. You briefly held the Stone. But the Wand…”

“Voldemort stole it,” Harry said. “From Dumbledore’s tomb.”

Hermione nodded. “So, you never united them. You were never the Master of Death.”

Harry’s fingers tightened around the coin. “Then why this?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe it’s not about possession. Maybe it’s about proximity. Or potential.”

Harry looked up. “You think someone’s assessing me?”

“I think someone, or something, is watching the loops. And this coin is a message. Or a trigger.”

Harry turned the coin over again. The skeletal hand seemed to shimmer faintly, as if moving beneath the surface.

Hermione’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Death and time are intertwined. The Hallows were created to cheat death. But what if they also bend time? What if the loops aren’t just resets… but echoes?”

Harry did not speak. The coin pulsed faintly in his palm, like a heartbeat that did not belong to him.

Hermione stood. “I should go. If McGonagall finds me here…”

Harry gave a faint nod. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

She hesitated at the door. “Harry… if this coin is real, then the loop is changing. And not by accident.”

He watched her disappear down the staircase, then turned back to the coin.

Later, when sleep finally came, it was not peaceful.

He dreamed of a field of stars, endless and silent. A figure stood at the edge of the void, cloaked and faceless. It held out a coin.

“You are not the Master of Death,” the figure said. “But death remembers you.”

Harry woke with a gasp. The coin was still in his hand.

Chapter Text

Morning’s first light seeped through the stained-glass windows of the Great Hall, spreading ribbons of amber and rose across polished tables. The usual hubbub of students was absent, only a handful of daring wizards and witches trickled in before breakfast officially began. Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, quill poised over a stack of dog-eared tomes, her eyes flicking between pages of arcane runes and yawning classmates. Ron lounged nearby, idly surveying empty platters as though forecasting tomorrow’s feast.

Harry burst through the doors a moment later, robes askew and wand half-concealed in his sleeve. His chest heaved from sprinting down the corridor; cheeks flushed with adrenaline. He skidded onto the bench between Ron and Hermione, nearly toppling Hermione’s parchment. She shot him a wry smile and nudged a plate of warm toast toward him.

“You’re late,” she teased, voice gentle. “I was about to send an owl for you.”

Harry rubbed his forehead, trying to still his pulse. “Train delays,” he lied smoothly as he took a bite. The sweet crunch of toast grounded him, just for a second, before Ron cleared his throat and stole the spotlight.

“Alright,” Ron announced, eyes gleaming, “before anyone else arrives, here’s what I did before sunrise.” His voice dipped so low that passing students steered clear, ears pricked in curiosity but unable to catch a single word. Hermione set aside her quill; Harry sat up, intrigued.

“I slipped out of the dormitory cloaked in Invisibility, no noise, no one the wiser,” Ron began, hand gesturing theatrically. “Got to Fred and George’s trunks and ran through every jinx and counter-jinx in my head, Periculum, Colloportus, even Runespoor-venom locks. One precise flick, and their final charm snapped like a twig. The Marauder’s Map was tucked behind a false panel, folded tighter than a dragon’s wing.”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled. “You disarmed a Runespoor-venom lock?” she exclaimed. “That takes understanding of dark creature magic—where did you even learn it?”

“From you,” Ron shot back with a smug grin. “Your research notes, Hermione. Magical Creatures 3rd Edition page 412. I adapted your counter-venom charm to unbind the lock.”

Harry pressed fingertips to his temples. “Then you have the map.” He sat up straighter. “What did you do with it?”

Ron tapped the parchment peeking from his robes. “I unfolded it in the dungeons and followed ‘S.P.’ blinking in Snape’s private corridor. Slithered through the passages under Gregory the Smarmy’s statue, dodged Filch and even Peeves. Got to Snape’s cabinet, whipped out a quick counter-Colloportus, and there it sat… a vial of Draught of Living Death sealed with black wax.”

Hermione bit her lip. “A banned potion in Snape’s private stores,” she whispered. “If he notices the vial missing…”

“Not a chance,” Ron said, eyes flashing. “I retreated the same way, map guiding me through every twist. I was back in the dormitory before the Fat Lady even yawned.”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “Then I didn’t waste a second. I uncorked the vial, poured half into Scabbers’ bowl, and dripped the rest onto his fur. He squeaked once, thrashed, then went under deeper than any Sleeping Spell we used on the train. And unlike that Somnolence Charm, this potion is more potent and long-lasting, he won’t wake again unless we brew the exact counter-potion.”

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “That’s perfect,” she whispered. Harry exhaled in relief, running a hand through his hair. “No risk of him transforming or squeaking at the worst moment.”

Hermione placed a gentle hand on Ron’s arm. “You’re brilliant, but reckless,” she chided softly.

Harry folded his hands around his goblet. The chatter around them dimmed in his ears. “Every time we tried to turn him in, it backfires. Fudge pardons Pettigrew to save face. He rejoins Voldemort sooner. We need a plan that doesn’t just hand him over. We need a plan that frees Sirius and keeps Peter out of sight until we can manage him properly.”

Ron’s voice wavered between excitement and worry. “Do we risk freeing Sirius now? Or wait until Year Three, when it’s canonically supposed to happen?”

Hermione’s lips pressed into a firm line. “Any deviation ripples forward. We might save Sirius but spark another disaster. Yet leaving him…” She hesitated, eyes darkening. “…behind bars for two more years feels like betrayal.”

Harry lifted his gaze. “We decide today. We work out the how and we do it.”

Heartened by his resolve, Ron grinned. “I’m not the only one busy this morning.” He pointed at Hermione’s arms, laden with scrolls and battered books.

With a determined exhale, Hermione slammed her books on the table. “I was up at dawn too. ‘Magical Theory’ outlines time-binding charms carved in ancient runes. And ‘Beautiful Beasts’ footnotes temporal wards stabilized by dragon-heartstring.” Her eyes gleamed with urgent possibility. “We can’t just rewrite the loop without anchoring it properly.” Harry and Ron exchanged startled glances.

Harry spoke first. “We need more than potions and maps. We need…” He paused, then lowered his voice further. “Something else happened after you fell asleep last night.”

Ron turned to him, curiosity bright in her eyes. “What is it?”

Harry drew the small coin from his robes and placed it on the table between them. In the lantern light, the Deathly Hallows gleamed on one side: triangle, circle, line. On the other, a skeletal hand reached up through mist.

Ron’s fork clattered into his plate. “Where did that come from?”

“I found it in my trunk,” Harry said. “No idea how it got there. Nothing to identify it but the Hallows symbol and this death rune.”

Hermione’s expression tightened. “Last loop, we thought the Horcrux in Harry’s scar was the anchor. But this… Death and time have always been intertwined in legend. Maybe the Hallows aren’t just lore here they’re woven into the loop.”

Ron frowned. “But you never became the Master of Death. You had the Cloak, briefly the Stone, never the Wand.”

Harry’s voice shook. “I dreamed of a cloaked figure offering me this coin. Saying, ‘Death remembers you.’” He closed his hand around the silver. “So, if the loop is tied to the Horcrux, what role do the Hallows play?”

Hermione’s thumb traced the symbol. “A tether, perhaps something testing you, testing us. Or a failsafe nobody ever anticipated.”

Their exchange was cut short by a sharp whoosh of robes and the low clearing of a throat. Professor McGonagall hovered at the table’s end, arms folded, eyes narrowed with thinly veiled suspicion.

“Your timetables, if you please,” she said crisply, laying parchment scrolls before them. “And do remember, first years should not be roaming corridors unsupervised at dawn.”

Ron exchanged a guilty look with Hermione and Harry. Hermione leaned in, voice sotto: “Muffliato, remember? Her ears were buzzing as we used it.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “She’s convinced we’re up to something.”

McGonagall’s gaze lingered before she swept away. The trio unrolled their timetables. First block: Potions with Snape. Second block: Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Quirrell. Exactly the same as every first day.

Before they could speak further, a wave of wings filled the hall. A flurry of owls swooped down, feathers brushing the gourds on the tables. Hedwig glided through the swarm, landed gracefully at Harry’s elbow, and hooted softly.

Harry extended a trembling hand. He remembered the last time he saw her save him taking a curse meant for him. Hedwig pressed her head against his palm as if reassuring him that some things endure beyond loops and death.

Ron leaned in, eyebrows raised. “Do you think Hedwig loops with us?”

Hermione gave him a sharp look. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ron.”

Ron retorted, half-smile curling his lips: “I’m just saying look at her. She’s been everywhere we’ve been.”

Harry kept his hand on Hedwig’s feathers, breathing in the familiar warmth. Hermione placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

He met her eyes and nodded, voice steady. “I’m fine. Just… this loop feels heavier. More losses than ever.”

Ron, ever the optimist, tapped his goblet. “Past is past even if the future was the past. The future’s not here yet. We can stop it. Nobody who doesn’t deserve it will die this time.”

Harry drew a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back. Hermione smiled, flimsy but real. Hedwig hooted, as if echoing their determination.

They finished breakfast in a flurry, gathering robes and books. The castle bell tolled. Time was slipping by. Without another word, they dashed from the Great Hall, three friends bound by magic, memory, and an unbreakable resolve to get this loop right.

Chapter Text

The dungeon corridors stretched before Harry like cavernous veins, torchlight flickering against damp stone walls. The air was heavy with the tang of acids and old magic, and the distant drip of water echoed through the silence. In the Potion Classroom, cauldrons hissed beside rows of locked cabinets, shelves sagging under ancient jars of mandrake extract and powdered dragon bone. Harry’s footsteps seemed unnaturally loud on the flagstones, each echo reminding him how long he’d tread this path, both as a student and a pawn.

He stood at his workstation, glass bottles and silver stirring rods laid out neatly. But his mind was elsewhere, full of questions about Severus Snape. Until the last loop, Harry’s hatred for Snape had burned hotter than any fear of Voldemort. Snape had been his tormentor, the one who made every class a gauntlet, every corridor a minefield of insults. Yet now he struggled to reconcile that man with the story of sacrifice, the desperate love for Lily that had driven Snape into Dumbledore’s service.

On one hand, Harry understood that Snape had always watched over him. On the other hand, he could not forgive the cruelty: the lessons laced with scorn, the taunts that dogged Sirius at every turn, the indifference the day Sirius fell. If Snape hadn’t goaded Sirius… Harry clenched his jaw. He should have factored Snape into their plan—spoken to him, demanded answers. But thoughts scattered as the classroom door bellowed open.

Professor Snape swept into the dungeon in a swirl of black robes, voice drifting across the rows of bubbling cauldrons with disdain. “Potions,” he began, “is the purest branch of magic, subtle, precise, and infinitely rewarding. Yet most of you lack the intelligence to appreciate its nuances. You will scald yourselves, poison your neighbours, or simply fail to grasp why a single drop can turn triumph into catastrophe.” His dark eyes roamed the first years, daring any to contradict him.

The room fell unnaturally still, as if the torches themselves were holding their breath before Snape’s gaze locked onto Harry. “Mr. Potter…what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Harry’s pulse pounded. He met Snape’s glare. “The Draught of the Living Dead, Professor.”

For a fraction of a heartbeat, Snape’s expression changed in something indescribable, an echo of something in his eyes before he masked it with a frustrated snort. “Indeed. And where would one procure a bezoar?”

Harry did not hesitate. “From the stomach of a goat, Professor.”

A scowl deepened on Snape’s face. “Very well. Now… explain the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane.”

Harry’s tone stayed even. “They are the same plant at different stages of bloom.”

An exasperated sigh slipped from Snape. “Finally, which solvent most effectively extracts aconite alkaloids?”

Harry answered, “Pure Spring water heated to seventy degrees Celsius.”

Snape’s frustration flared; he banged his fist on a desk so sharply the students flinched. “Enough! Begin brewing. The recipe and steps are on the board.” He turned away, arms crossed as students scrambled to copy instructions.

As the classroom buzz died down, Hermione leaned over, voice barely above a whisper. “Harry, remember Snape’s first question about asphodel and wormwood? Do you know their meanings in the Victorian language of flowers?”

Harry frowned, brow knitting. Why on earth was Hermione talking about flower meanings in Potions? He stared at her for a moment, utterly bewildered.

Then a memory surfaced: Aunt Petunia’s gardening magazines stacked on the windowsill at Privet Drive. Harry had spent more than one sweltering summer potting dahlias and pruning roses, he had learned a bit of floriography by osmosis.

“I…did some of the gardening at the Dursleys,” he began slowly. “I remember wormwood means ‘absence,’ and I know asphodel is a type of lily, but I never caught its actual meaning.”

Hermione’s fingers trembled on the edge of her textbook. “Asphodel means ‘My regret follows you to the grave.’”

A cold shock pressed against Harry’s ribs. Snape had not been testing potion knowledge he had hidden a message of sorrow and guilt for Harry to uncover. He stared at his stirring rod, chest tightening, as the rest of the lesson blurred past.

When the bell finally rang, Harry slipped away before anyone could speak again. On the stone stairwell, his unease clung to him like a shadow. Ron met him halfway, shoulders hunched.

“Are you sure you’re not reading too much into it?” he asked quietly. “Okay, Snape was on our side, but he’s always been a git. We can’t pardon years of cruelty just because he mourned Lily—no offense, Harry.”

Hermione gave Ron a stern look. “We must try. He saved Harry’s life, several times. We can’t write him off entirely.”

Harry remained silent, torn between resentment and something like pity.

By midafternoon, they had sunk into a quiet alcove in the library. A single beam of sunlight picked out dust motes above the long tables. Ron nervously traced lines on the Marauder’s Map. Hermione tapped her quill against an open tome on magical clues. Sunlight slanted across dusty tomes as Harry recounted his tea with Hagrid.

Harry pressed a folded newspaper clipping onto the table. “I found this when I visited Hagrid. ‘GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN ROCKS WIZARD BANK.’ Someone placed it exactly where I’d sit.”

Hermione frowned. “Like someone wanted you to see it.”

Ron shrugged, eyes flicking to the map. “Death guiding you?”

Harry let out a hollow laugh. “No… this is human. Someone’s orchestrating clues.” He tapped the clipping. “Mirror of Erised, forbidden corridor, the break-in at Gringotts… Dumbledore had his hand in almost every twist.”

Hermione closed the book with a soft snap, gaze serious. “You mean Dumbledore? He lets us run free, but would he engineer everything?”

Harry’s voice dropped. “I’m not the bright-eyed kid I was. He’s been steering us, probing me, just enough to prepare for Voldemort. Last year I realized he treated me like livestock, preparing me for slaughter. Now… I don’t know if I can trust him.”

Ron folded the map, resolve hardening in his eyes. “It did feel too easy.”

Hermione reached out, squeezing Harry’s arm. “He cared about you, Harry. But caring and manipulating aren’t the same.”

They sat in thoughtful silence until a raven’s croak echoed from the windows. Dust motes drifted in the beam of light, frozen in the hush.

Harry finally stood, smoothing his robes and pushing up his glasses. “We’ll watch Snape—and Dumbledore too. No more hidden agendas.”

Ron tucked the map into his pocket; Hermione snapped her book shut with a determined nod. Together, they rose and left the alcove, ready to challenge the pillars of their world and rewrite their destiny.

Chapter Text

The common room lay hushed beneath a blanket of embers and shadow. Only the crackle of the fireplace disturbed the heavy silence, golden flames dancing across scarlet tapestries, casting long, wavering silhouettes on the worn armchairs. It had been a week since they had reset into this loop, and tonight the golden trio huddled together on the floor, backs pressed to the hearth’s warmth.

Harry stared into the flames, jaw clenched. “We’ve done nothing but secure Peter,” he whispered, voice tight with frustration. “I want him out of our sight and Sirius free. I want to hunt every Horcrux, finish Voldemort before he even begins again.”

Hermione laid a steadying hand on his arm. “Harry, you know we can’t rush. The loop rejects shortcuts. Every time we skipped a step, things unravelled faster than before.”

Ron shifted closer, lowering his voice. “We’ve got Peter stone cold, but if we’re to free Sirius, we need someone in power at the Ministry—someone incorruptible who can see this trial through.”

Hermione tapped her lip in thought. “Kingsley Shacklebolt,” she offered. “He’s been fair, courageous…”

“No,” Ron cut in, shaking his head. “Right now, he’s just another Auror, no real authority to bind the Wizengamot. And last loop taught us Dumbledore’s pockets run deep there. We can’t risk going through Kingsley.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Then… Mad-Eye Moody? He’s a senior Auror with clout.”

Ron snorted. “Moody’s mad as a Boggart and too close to Dumbledore. He’d blow our cover in a heartbeat.”

Hermione bit her lip, casting about for another name. “Mr. Weasley? Your father is well liked…”

“Dad doesn’t preside over anything,” Ron replied curtly. “He’s popular—great for jokes and Christmas— but no power to see Pettigrew sentenced.”

Harry, silent until now, lifted his head from his hands. Firelight flickered across his determined expression. “Madame Bones,” he said, voice low but firm. Hermione and Ron both turned to him, surprised.

“Madame Amelia Bones,” Harry continued. “At my trial in the Wizengamot, she was the only one who stood up to Fudge and Umbridge. She’s Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, fiercely honest and incorruptible. She could make sure Peter stays imprisoned and get Sirius a proper appeal.”

Silence fell. Hermione’s eyes brightened. “She is incorruptible… but how do we reach her? You can’t just owl her… Ministry protocols filter everything.”

Ron tapped his chin. “They’d intercept any direct message. We’d need someone she trusts.”

Hermione’s face lit with realization. “Susan Bones, her niece is at Hogwarts. If we find Susan, she could pass a private letter or summon time. We could arrange a discreet meeting in Hogsmeade.”

Harry exhaled, relief softening his features. “If Susan vouches for us, Madame Bones might listen.”

Ron grinned and punched the air lightly. “Finally! A plan that might actually work without blowing us sky-high.”

Hermione’s quill scratched furiously across a scrap of parchment as she mapped out every possible route to engage Susan Bones’s without drawing undue attention. She paused only to glance at Harry’s pacing silhouette, firelight flickering off his furrowed brow. Every loop taught her that even the smallest anomaly triggered disaster, so the approach had to be flawless.

Harry clenched his fists at his sides. “I wish we could speed this up,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the hearth. “But the loop just detonates when we rush. Fine then I’ll take care of the diadem myself.”

Ron shot him a startled look. “What? You’re going after the Ravenclaw diadem now?” He pointed toward the seventh-floor corridor. “It’s in the Room of Lost Things, dangerous enough just getting to it.”

Hermione set her quill down. “And once you have it, where will you keep it? We don’t have a magical lockbox yet. I’m still reverse-engineering primitive horcrux containers, but it needs more time.” She drew a shaky breath, then pressed a finger to her long to-do list. “Plus, nobody’s ever even bumped into that horcrux before. Its secrecy is its best protection.”

Harry’s voice grew sharp. “If I don’t retrieve it now, it could slip into someone else’s hands or fade from our reach. I could hide it in the Chamber of Secrets.”

Ron snorted. “Brilliant plan if you fancy being gobbled by a basilisk. It’s still down there, Harry. We don’t know if Dumbledore or Voldemort has eyes on that entrance.” He kicked at a loose pebble by the hearth, sending sparks flying.

Harry ran both hands through his hair; frustration etched into every line of his face. Hermione and Ron slid closer, each placing a steady hand on his shoulders. In the hush that followed, the trio drew strength from one another’s quiet solidarity knowing that whatever path they chose next, they would face it together.

Hermione set aside her parchment and met Harry’s eyes. “What’s going on, Harry? You’ve been on edge all night.” Her voice was gentle but firm just like it had been back in fifth year, before everything erupted.

Harry stared into the dying embers, jaw clenched so tight his knuckles shone white. He said nothing.

Ron exchanged a worried look with Hermione. “Harry,” he ventured, “are you dreaming… again?”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. “Dreaming?”

Ron nodded. “I’ve seen you toss and turn, clutching that cursed coin in your sleep.” He glanced at Harry, then back to Hermione. “Just like the locket every time you woke up, it was in your hand.”

Harry’s shoulders shook with silent frustration. “It’s not my fault. I wake up with it in my fist and I can’t remember a single dream… but they leave me raw, anxious.”

Hermione reached out and squeezed his arm. “Then we’ll treat it like the locket. We rotate who carries it so it can’t prey on one mind.”

Harry managed a hollow chuckle. “That worked so well before…”

Ron’s face flushed at the memory. “We all made mistakes with the locket, mate. I’m sorry for how I behaved.”

Harry closed his eyes. “Let’s just hide it somewhere safe. We’re not fleeing from catchers anymore, so no need to lug it around.”

Hermione nodded. “I should’ve thought to study it sooner, but we had too much on our plates.” She tapped her quill against her lip. “Where to hide it? It needs the same secrecy as the diadem.”

A spark lit in Ron’s eyes. “The Room of Lost Things. If it keeps the diadem safe, it can hold the coin.”

Harry opened his eyes slowly. “And we can slip in afterward to confirm the diadem’s still where we left it.”

They leaned toward the hearth, voices dropping to excited whispers as Hermione sketched a new plan. Tomorrow at dusk, they would slip to the seventh floor together: secure the diadem, conceal the coin, and finally ease the shadow pressing on Harry’s dreams. In the hush that followed, the last ember flickered out, leaving them to the certainty of their next move.

Chapter Text

The library felt unusually hushed, as if every journal and book were holding its breath. Faint whispers drifted from the Restricted Section, and the ticking of a distant grandfather clock marked each second with solemn insistence. Sunlight slanted through the glass, gilding floating dust motes that twirled like restless spirits, the air tinged with the faint tang of parchment, ink, and a hint of mildew.

Hermione sat rigid at the oak table, fingers drumming on a closed book. Ron lingered by a shelf, knees bent, attempting nonchalance, though the soft scrape of his foot catching on a stone crack betrayed his nerves. Harry drew a steadying breath, feeling the tension coil in his chest.

He spotted Susan Bones mid-shelf, her profile sharp against rows of textbooks. She moved with deliberate care, lining up potion books and Herbology texts as though each placement mattered. Hermione gave him a subtle nod; Ron tugged at his robe sleeve. Harry squared his shoulders and stepped forward.

“Excuse me,” he began, voice low enough to avoid curious eavesdroppers but firm enough to carry. Susan paused, turning her head just enough for the light to catch her watchful eyes.

He allowed a brief, honest smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Harry—Harry Potter.”

Her lips curved, not quite a smile. “Susan Bones. Hufflepuff.” She tilted her head, gauging him with cool precision. “What brings the famous Harry Potter to my corner of the library?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. He glanced at Hermione—Hermione let out a quiet, hushed breath—then at Ron, whose fingers twitched against the shelf. Back at Susan, Harry let his deep green eyes hold hers. He almost faltered, choosing his words twice before speaking.

“Your aunt…Amelia Bones. Does she really serve as head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?”

A quick flash passed through Susan’s eyes, doubt, curiosity, or perhaps a memory of her aunt, before she set her books aside and folded her arms, leaning against the shelf.

“That’s an… interesting question. Why?”

Harry’s heart hammered, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “I need her help. It’s sensitive. I can’t explain here.” He leaned in, lowering his voice so even the dust motes would keep the secret. “What I’m facing can’t wait. Will you trust me, even if we’re strangers?”

Silence stretched, heavy as unused chalk. Susan’s gaze drifted to the empty tables then back to Harry. She uncrossed her arms, reached into her robes, and withdrew a quill, tapping its tip thoughtfully against her palm.

“I’ll write,” she said quietly, voice measured. “I won’t ask for details some things are best left unsaid. But Potter, after this, you owe me a favour.”

Harry’s chest tightened. “A favour?” Harry’s stomach did a somersault; he almost asked what kind of favour she meant but held his tongue.

Susan let out a soft, knowing chuckle. “Everyone dismisses Hufflepuffs as soft. But we understand the value of bargaining.” She tucked the quill away and gestured toward the exit. “Consider it done. Now go before someone notices we’re conspiring.”

As he turned, Harry felt an odd thrill of both relief and foreboding. Why does it feel like I just signed a pact? he thought.

He managed a grateful smile. “Thank you, Susan. I appreciate this more than I can say.”

“Don’t mention it,” she replied, already returning to her shelves with a small, triumphant grin.

Harry retraced his steps to Hermione and Ron, who watched him with wide eyes.

Hermione exhaled. “Well?”

He allowed himself a small, triumphant lift of the chin. “It worked. Turns out Hufflepuffs know a trick or two about leverage.”

***

That night, the castle’s corridors lay draped in shadow and silence. Harry slipped out of the portrait hole, Hermione at his heels, Ron bringing up the rear. The castle was quiet, but not asleep. Hogwarts never truly slept.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron crouched behind a suit of armour on the fourth-floor landing, the Marauder’s Map spread across Harry’s knees. Tiny, inked footprints moved lazily through the corridors, Filch was on the third floor, Mrs. Norris slinking behind him. No sign of Peeves. No sign of Dumbledore.

“Now,” Harry whispered.

One by one, they cast the Disillusionment Charm. The sensation was always strange like an egg cracking on your head its yolk dripping from head to toe, then vanishing into it. Their skin shimmered, then blurred, until they were indistinguishable from the stone walls around them.

They moved silently, shadows among shadows, guided by the map’s shifting ink. The seventh-floor corridor loomed ahead, empty and echoing. As they passed the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, Hermione whispered, “Think: Room of Lost Things.”

They paced three times, minds focused on forgotten objects, hidden relics, and the Ravenclaw diadem. The wall shimmered, then peeled open like a curtain of smoke.

Inside, the Room of Requirement had transformed into a vast, chaotic vault. Moonlight filtered through high, dust-caked windows, casting silver beams across towering piles of discarded magic. Broken wands, cracked goblets, rusted swords, and books with trembling covers filled the space. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and something darker like scorched velvet.

Harry stepped forward, the coin in his pocket pulsing faintly. “It’s still here,” he murmured.

Hermione nodded, eyes scanning the room. “We need to find the diadem first. Then we hide the coin.”

They moved carefully, weaving between stacks of forgotten things. Ron nearly tripped over a cursed music box that began to hum before Hermione silenced it with a flick of her wand.

Then Harry saw it.

Perched atop a bust of an old warlock, half-buried beneath a dusty wig, was the diadem. Its silver gleamed faintly, runes etched along its curve like whispers frozen in metal.

Harry reached out, fingers trembling. Almost touching it, a chill ran through his arm not painful, but tantalizing. Ron gripped his arm abruptly. The diadem pulsed once, then went still.

Then Hermione gave him a sharp look.
“Harry! You should know better than to touch it!”

A wave of shame washed over Harry, even as the diadem’s faint pulse still tugged at his curiosity.

Harry looked dazed. “Sorry… I forgot about its luring ability…”

“We can’t keep it,” Hermione said quickly. “Not yet. We don’t have a container, and it’s too dangerous.”

Harry nodded reluctantly. “We checked it’s still here. Now we hide the coin.”

They found a hollow beneath a collapsed cabinet, surrounded by cursed mirrors and a pile of broken chess pieces. Harry placed the coin deep inside, wrapping it in a torn bit of dragon-hide glove.

As he did, the room seemed to shiver. A low hum filled the air, and for a moment, the shadows shifted unnaturally.

Ron stiffened. “Did you hear that?”

Hermione’s eyes darted toward the entrance. “We should go now.”

The door to the Room of Requirement sealed behind them with a soft sigh, leaving the trio in the dim corridor outside. The castle was quiet, the torches flickering low, casting long shadows across the stone walls.

Ron exhaled. “That was… smoother than I expected.”

Hermione nodded, brushing dust from her robes. “The coin’s hidden. The diadem’s untouched. No alarms. No cursed echoes. I’d call that a success.”

Harry glanced back at the wall, now blank and unremarkable. “Let’s just hope it stays hidden.”

They turned to head back toward the common room—
And stopped.

A figure rounded the corner, nearly colliding with them. It was Dumbledore, as surprised to see them as they were to see him.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, stepping back and raising both hands in playful shock. “Goodness, I had no idea anyone was out this late.”

Harry’s heart pounded; Hermione’s cheeks flushed; Ron glanced at the floor.

Hermione squared her shoulders. “Professor, we…”

Dumbledore folded his hands behind his back, his smile soft and indulgent. “Walki­ng the corridors at night can be bracing, but hardly punishable.” He peered at Harry with genuine curiosity. “Harry my boy, you look chilled to the bone. Are you quite all right?”

Harry swallowed. “Fine, sir. Just—got lost.”

Dumbledore chuckled softly, as though sharing a private joke. “Lost has its charms, sometimes but not on cold nights. Do take care of yourselves.” His gaze drifted to the blank wall where the Room’s door had been. “This corridor, though… I’ve never noticed it quite so still.” He tapped his chin, as if puzzled by nothing in particular. “Hogwarts has a way of revealing what we least expect.”

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it.

Dumbledore nodded at them kindly. “Off you go, now. Rest well and remember even secrets deserve a good night’s sleep.”

As soon as he drifted out of sight, Hermione let out a soft exhale, her shoulders finally relaxing. Ron’s lips quirked into a relieved grin, and he ran a hand through his hair as if shaking off a chill.

Harry glanced back at the blank wall, unremarkable and still, feeling that familiar churn of reassurance and dread in his chest. “Let’s just hope it stays hidden,” he murmured.

They turned to head back toward the common room, steps lighter and breaths easier leaving Harry with a strange mix of comfort and foreboding, feeling, for the first time, as if the headmaster knew something they did not.

Later that night, Harry lay in the half-light of the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory. The heavy curtains of his four-poster hung motionless, swallowing the torch-glow to deep charcoal. Across the narrow aisle, Ron’s own canopy bed stood silent, its scarlet drapes drawn tight. The castle’s ancient stones seemed to exhale around him, a slow, mournful sigh that carried on the chill draft slipping beneath the door. Hermione was safe in the girls’ tower and yet Harry felt the old, familiar loneliness settle behind his ribs.

He closed his eyes, willing sleep to come. But the coin’s echo throbbed at his side as though alive, a heartbeat of silver against bone. His breaths grew shallow, mind and body caught between waking and dreaming, until at last he drifted beyond the veil of consciousness.

He found himself alone in a vast, deserted crypt. Lanterns hung from iron hooks, but their flames were dead. The only light came from the coin lying at the centre of a stone dais its surface molten with an inner glow, as if the sun had been caught in metal. Around the dais, the floor was inscribed with names: friends who had fallen, allies who had vanished, innocents caught in the crossfire. Each name pulsed once, then faded into darkness.

As Harry stepped forward, the hush was broken by a low, pulsating chant: All debts must be paid. His foot struck a cracked tile, and the walls shivered. The air smelled of damp earth and cold ashes, and every breath felt like inhaling centuries of sorrow. He reached for the coin but when his fingers touched its rim, ice burned through his skin, and the lanterns flickered to life, casting grotesque shadows on vaulted stone.

Behind him, a figure emerged from the gloom: tall, hooded, draped in charred robes that whispered like dry leaves. In one hand it bore a long scythe; in the other, an empty palm that beckoned. Harry froze, the coin’s flame pulsing stronger now, as if it welcomed the darkness as much as he feared it.

“Return,” the figure intoned, voice hollow and echoing, “or embrace the cost.”

Harry tried to speak, to deny every bargain he had ever made but no words would come. The dais fractured, and from the cracks spilled a tide of ghostly faces, all mouths open in silent screams. The hooded shape advanced, blade scraping stone, hunger in every movement. Harry’s grip tightened on the coin; its heat flared, white-hot, blinding him. With a shuddering gasp, he wrenched it free and hurled it behind him.

Light exploded. The ghostly faces dissolved into motes of silver dust. The courtyard of his dream, the crypt, shattered like glass, and Harry tumbled upward through layers of distant thunder and cold, storm-laden clouds.

He woke with a strangled cry, heart hammering against his ribs. Dawn’s pale fingers slipped through the dormitory windows. Silence reigned, but in his palm lay the coin, its surface smooth, unbroken, and utterly still. The shock of its weight was real, its pulse gone but the memory of that icy flame lingered.

Harry sat upright, blankets pooled at his waist and studied the coin in the weak light. How had it come to him when he had hidden it so deep? Questions pressed on his throat: magic or malice, fate, or foul play. He glanced at Ron, sprawled peacefully under his own scarlet drapes, then toward the girl’s dormitory, where Hermione ought to be. A flicker of suspicion ignited in his chest… if anyone knew of their midnight foray, it was Dumbledore. Could the headmaster have plucked the coin from its hollow? Or had the coin answered some darker call and returned on its own?

Clutching it, Harry rose and slipped quietly to the window. Below, the grounds lay silvered by frost, silent as a held breath. The coin lay heavy in his hand, silent, yet full of whispered promises and unending debts. And Harry Potter, torn between dread and determination, knew that this mysterious gift of dawn had bound him ever tighter to the bargain he had hoped to bury.

Chapter Text

Morning light filtered down the towering windows of the Great Hall, painting long shadows across the breakfast tables, but Harry scarcely noticed. He slid onto a bench between Ron and Hermione, heart pounding at the weight concealed beneath his robes. He stole a glance at Ron’s plate piled high with bacon and toast, wishing the aroma could ease his guilt yet knowing it could not. The coin’s mysterious return, slick and cold, gnawed at him, a secret he dared not share for fear of what Ron or Hermione might think.

Neville’s owl screeched overhead, dropping a small parchment onto the table. Neville’s hand trembled as he pried it open. “I-it’s from my grandmother,” he stammered, cheeks flushing red and proud all at once. “She… she sent me a Remembrall.” He held the glass sphere up for Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan to inspect, voice wavering between excitement and shame that his grandma thought he needed it.

Dean leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “A Remembrall? What exactly does that do, Neville?”

Neville cleared his throat. “It… er, glows red when I’ve forgotten something.” He gave the orb a nervous squeeze. A pale rose tint bloomed across its surface. “See?” He tapped it lightly. “Light red means I forgot… something.”

 “Brilliant,” Seamus snorted. “It’s like a note that reminds you to remember without telling you WHAT to remember! Completely useless.”

Laughter rippled through the Gryffindor table. Neville managed a shaky laugh himself, but his smile did not reach his eyes. He tucked the Remembrall against his chest, shoulders hunched, as if trying to make himself smaller. Even surrounded by friends, he felt alone.

Before the mood could settle, Draco Malfoy swept up beside Neville’s bench, Crabbe and Goyle flanking him. He fixed Neville with a cold smile. “What’s this half-squib got now?” Malfoy sneered, stretching a pale hand toward the Remembrall. “Let me guess… another proof you’re dimmer than a broken wand?”

Neville jerked the orb back, voice barely more than a whisper. “B-back off, Malfoy.”

Draco’s grin sharpened. “Hand it over, Longbottom, before it—”

As Draco lounged to grab the sphere Harry was on his feet in an instant. He shot Draco a furious look. “Leave him alone.”

Draco flicked his head, pale eyes flashing. “Or what, Potter? You’re going to—?”

Before Draco could finish, Harry darted forward. He caught the Remembrall mid-reach, fingers closing around it. The glass trembled, then flared a deep, aching crimson almost black, as though it had swallowed every colour but fear. A collective gasp rippled through the hall.

Draco recoiled, laughter dying in his throat. His pale hand twitched. “You—”

Draco took a step back, Crabbe and Goyle looming at his sides. His lips curled into a sneer, but his eyes kept flicking to the dark orb clutched in Harry’s hand.

“Enjoy your toy, Potter,” he spat, voice low. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. There are worse fates than forgetting your homework.”

With that, he turned on his heel. Crabbe and Goyle following him as they melted into the milling students, leaving a hush in their wake.

A single fork drops somewhere behind Harry. Then the Hall’s chatter and clatter rush back in, as if exhales released. Harry’s breath catches: he stares down at the Remembrall still pulsing in his palm. For a heartbeat he has transported: the draw of a hidden chamber, a silver-voiced warning in the dark—then it’s gone, leaving only the orb’s bruised-red glow. His fingers itch.

Hermion leans forward, voice low and urgent. “Neville… what does that colour mean?”

Neville flinches, eyes wide. He shifts on the bench; cheeks drained of colour. “I—I’ve never seen one go so dark.” His voice is small, almost scared. “It shouldn’t turn more than scarlet. If it’s this deep… either you’ve forgotten something monumental, or it’s malfunctioning.”

Harry’s jaw clenches. He lifts the Remembrall almost reverently, watching the black-red swirl at its core. The Hall’s noise feels distant now—Ron’s porridge untouched, Hermione’s worried gaze steady on him.

Ron’s hand hovers, as if to reach out, then falls back. “Harry… did you forget something really important? Something big?”

Harry’s throat tightens. He forces a shake of his head, though his mind races for the memory that won’t surface. “Nothing I can think of.”

Hermione exchanged a worried look with Ron. The Remembrall’s glow deepened, as if sensing their uncertainty.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, mind racing: had he overlooked some vital detail? A meeting, a warning, a promise?

He opened them again, resolve settling like iron. “All right,” he said softly. “Let’s finish breakfast and get to class. We’ll figure this out.”

With that, he slid the Remembrall into Neville’s trembling hands and turned back to his toast though he could not taste a bite. The coin in his robes pulsed faintly in answer, as though urging him forward into whatever he had forgotten.

Hermione’s eyes darted to Malfoy’s retreating sneer. She squeezed Neville’s arm. “Better put it away in your dormitory. If you leave it out, Malfoy will try to steal it again, probably during class.”

Ron leaned in. “Yeah, and I’ve seen what happens when he gets his hands on something that isn’t his.”

Neville nodded, clutching the Remembrall to his chest. Harry’s shame flared: he was hiding something far more mysterious than a simple Remembrall.

***

They left the Great Hall in a swirl of crimson robes and morning chill, crossing the courtyard toward the grassy practice field. Neville was nowhere in sight.

“Where’s Neville?” Ron asked, scanning the path.

Hermione bit her lip. “He said he’d come back in a minute.”

Moments later, Neville came sprinting up, hair wind-tossed, cheeks flushed. “Sorry I’m late. I hid it in the dormitory, like you said.” He panted as he joined them, clutching his empty robes. Relief and guilt flickered in the trio’s eyes: today, they would not intervene.

Professor Rolanda Hooch’s whistle cut through the air. Her yellow eyes swept the line of eager first-years. “Brooms, now” she commanded crisply. “Mount, lean forward, and trust the broom to carry you.”

Harry vaulted onto his Oakshaft Seventy-Nine as easily as breathing, the lift beneath him familiar and steady. Ron and Hermione followed without hesitation. Neville climbed shakily, chin high, eyes fierce with determination.

“Spread your fingers, trust the wind!” Hooch’s voice echoed. Harry’s broom rose smoothly, steady as a friend. He glanced at Neville already swaying slightly and felt a pang of worry. But he forced himself to hold back.

Harry’s thoughts sped through every loop they had lived. Each time they had swooped in to save Neville from a fall, something worse had followed. Broken ribs. Concussion. A month in the hospital wing. They could not bear repeating that cruel pattern.

Hermione’s wand hovered at her side, fingers itching to flick “Wingardium Leviosa.” But she recalled the panic that had rippled through Neville after his last rescue, how his confidence had shattered. She forced the wand into her pocket, heart tightening.

Ron’s jaw clenched. He remembered the look on Neville’s face when that fractured spine kept him from classes for weeks. Better this single tumble than a fate they could not repair.

Neville’s face drained of colour. His broom lurched. He gasped, arms flailing and toppled.

A heartbeat later, Professor Hooch stooped like a hawk and swept him from the air. “Down to the infirmary, Mr. Longbottom, at once! Learn to trust your broom—no one else mount one until I return!”

Neville clutched his side as Hooch carried him off. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exhaled together, eyes fixed on the empty grass. At least the Remembrall was safe.

Draco Malfoy knelt by a fallen branch, flipping a silver coin between pale fingers. Harry’s heart lurched—his coin.

He surged forward. “Malfoy!”

Draco straightened, eyes bright with mischief. “Looking for this?” He let the coin spin, purely to see Harry’s reaction. He did not know its true power only that it rattled Harry.

“Give it back,” Harry said calmly, voice low.

“Or what?” Draco taunted. “You’ll hex me? You’re all show, Potter.” He smirked, then sprang onto a waiting broom, kicking off without effort.

Harry grabbed the nearest Cleansweep and launched into pursuit.

The chase blurred into wind and sky and green below, a dizzying spiral of dust and blades of grass whistling past in relentless fury, each breath a crack of thunder in Harry’s chest, adrenaline setting his veins ablaze.

Rise! Twist! Catch!

Harry kicked his broom skyward, surging past the treetops and rising toward Draco’s silhouette.

With a precise barrel roll, Harry drew alongside him. Their brooms skated level so close Harry could see Draco’s fists tighten around the coin.

Draco flinched, surprise flickering across his pale face, a tremor of fear before he spun away.

He flung the coin with all his might.

Harry’s world tipped. He dropped toward the dark lake, muscles reacting with perfect instinct. His broom levelled beneath him.

As he skidded across the water’s edge, Harry thought of Neville’s tumble. Sometimes a fall was the only way to stand taller.

Only a hair’s breadth separated Harry’s fingers from oblivion as the coin spun toward the lake’s dark mirror. In that heartbeat, he shifted the Cleansweep beneath him, heel down, nose up, turning his broom into a razor-thin blade slicing millimetres above the water. Like a swift Wronski Feint, he dipped, feathered the pressure in his right hand, and let the wind carve a curve under his broom.

The coin grazed the surface, sending tiny ripples across the murk, before Harry’s hand snapped down. He caught it between thumb and forefinger only a breath before it vanished beneath the reeds. His broom hovered, quivering with the rush of air and adrenaline, its bristles ghosting just above the waves.

With a gentle upward pull of the stick, Harry lifted free of the lake’s pull, skimming in toward the shore as morning light flickered across the water. He set the broom down in the soft mud, boots slipping as he touched ground, and stood there panting, coin safe in his palm and the Cleansweep resting at his side.

Harry lay panting on the muddy shore as Ron and Hermione scrambled down the slope, robes streaked with earth. Hermione’s eyes met Ron’s for a heartbeat, a silent question and promise, before they both knelt beside him.

“Harry! Are you all right?” Ron asked, offering a hand.

Harry pressed the coin into his pocket and nodded. Before they could rise, Draco Malfoy swooped in on his broom, landing with a thud that sent mud flying.

“Not bad, Potter,” Draco sneered, jaw tight with bruised pride. “But let’s see how you fare without a broom. Midnight, trophy room! Duel me there if you’ve still got the nerve.”

A troop of Slytherins clustered behind him, laughter bubbling as they echoed his challenge. Ron cracked his knuckles; Hermione squared her shoulders.

“Don’t think you’ve got the last word, Malfoy,” Hermione called.

“We’ll be seeing you tonight,” Ron added.

Draco forced his sneer back into place and stalked off, the Slytherins parting around him like a green-and-silver tide.

A sharp, breathless voice cut through the murmur. “Mr. Potter!”

Professor McGonagall stood at the water’s edge, skirts whipping in the wind, spectacles askew, her face pale with astonishment.

“Never—never in all my years at Hogwarts—” she gasped, one hand pressed to her chest. “You—flying like that—across the lake—no supervision—”

Harry opened his mouth to explain, but she waved a trembling hand. “Not here. Not now. Come with me—immediately.”

Her voice cracked with urgency as she turned on her heel, robes billowing. Harry hurried to follow, mud still clinging to his boots. Ron and Hermione watched her retreat, wide-eyed.

“She’s not angry,” Hermione whispered. “She’s... stunned.”

Ron grinned. “That’s the look of someone about to recruit a Seeker.”

They knew exactly what that summons meant.

Draco, broom still in his hand at the edge of the field, overheard the hurried whispers. A delighted smirk spread across his face. “Potter’s in trouble now,” he murmured to his cronies as they laughed behind him.

Hermione shot Draco a withering look. “He won’t be smug for long when he learns he’s the new Gryffindor’s seeker.”

Ron punched her arm playfully. “And we’ll trample him during that midnight duel.”

Hermione laughed. “Not that Malfoy will show… true to form, the coward.”

“Let’s go see Neville.”

Together they raced across the dewy grass toward the infirmary, hearts light with relief and anticipation.

They slipped through the infirmary doors into the hushed room; its walls lined with cradled beds and the faint scent of antiseptic. Neville settled onto a high, white‐linen cot as Ron and Hermione hovered at his side.

Madam Pomfrey bustled forward, robes swishing. She inspected Neville’s wrapped wrist with a practiced eye. “Just a clean break, Mr. Longbottom,” she announced crisply, pulling out her wand. “A simple healing charm, and those bones will knit as good as new.”

A soft glow bloomed around his wrist. Neville winced, then exhaled as the pain eased. Pomfrey handed him a goblet of pain-relieving potion. “Rest it for a few days, avoid any heavy lifting, and come back if the ache persists. Otherwise, you’re good to go.”

Hermione let out a breath she did not know she had been holding. “Thank you, Madam Pomfrey.”

Neville managed a nervous smile. “I’ll be more careful.”

Pomfrey gave him a brisk nod. “Off to lunch, then. And try not to break anything else today.” With that, she bustled away to tend another patient.

Hermione and Ron helped Neville to his feet. His steps were a bit unsteady, but relief shone in his eyes.

They left the infirmary and made their way back through the castle’s quiet corridors, echoes of their footsteps soft on the stone.

They crossed under the arch into the Great Hall just as the foods were laid out. The familiar scent of steak and kidney pie greeted them. Harry, already seated at the Gryffindor table, looked up and waved.

Hermione wove through the crowd, Ron and Neville close behind.

Steam curled from the tureens of roasted potatoes as Ron and Hermione slid onto the bench beside Harry, the heat from the long oak table warming the chill from his mud-streaked robes. The clang of cutlery and the low murmur of hungry first-years felt like a shield, momentarily pushing the morning’s dangers beyond these stone walls.

Hermione’s fork paused midway to her mouth as she fixed Harry with a sharp look. “Harry, how did the coin end up in Malfoy’s hand? We hid it in the Room of Requirement. You didn’t go back for it, did you?”

Harry met her gaze, calm in the chaos of the hall. He tucked the coin deeper into his robes and shook his head. “I’ll explain later.”

Across the table, Neville caught Harry’s expression and tapped his own wrist, relief shining in his eyes. Hermione’s suspicion melted into concern as she reached to steady Neville’s arm. “You’ll take it easy now?”

Neville squared his shoulders. “Promise. No more unplanned dismounts today.”

Above them, the enchanted ceiling glowed with the brilliance of a high-noon sky, the sun at its peak and clouds drifting lazily across its surface. Harry still heard McGonagall’s astonished gasp and Draco’s taunt about a midnight duel in the trophy room, his next challenge lurking in the castle’s shadowed corridors.

He lifted his goblet of pumpkin juice and met Ron and Hermione’s eyes. “Here’s to some things never changing,” he said quietly. “Like Professor McGonagall wanting me as Seeker—again.”

“To Gryffindor,” Ron echoed, grinning.

Hermione rolled her eyes with a fond smile. “And to no surprise midnight duels, true to form.”

A hush fell as Professor McGonagall rose at the high table, her stern gaze locking onto Harry’s. In that instant he felt every expectation—his own, his friend’s, the castle’s—settle around him. Yet alongside it burned a fierce certainty: no matter how many loops he flew, he would always rise.

Candles flickered overhead. Laughter rippled back to life. And as Harry took a steady sip, he knew the real adventure was only just beginning.

Chapter Text

Harry lay half-awake beneath the scarlet canopy of his four-poster bed, the midnight ward humming softly like distant thunder. Outside, the castle’s ancient timbers sighed under the weight of wind; inside his curtains, only the phosphorescent runes threaded through crimson cloth broke the darkness in pale pulses. A Silencio Circle wove between the posts, sealing every sound; no footstep, no distant owl, no creak of floorboard could penetrate this hidden retreat.

Across the rumpled quilts, Hermione and Ron huddled beside him. Moonlight sifted through a narrow gap in the drapes, painting Hermione’s determined face in silver and emboldening the runes around her. She pressed her wand tip to the fabric, eyes alight with anxious energy. “Harry,” she said, voice clipped though no one beyond the ward could hear, “you woke up with the coin in your palm again this morning. How on earth did it reappear? Did you slip back into the Room of Lost Things without telling us?”

Harry pushed himself onto one elbow, the coin already cold and weightless in his hand. He stared at it as though it might explain itself. “I swear I didn’t,” he rasped, voice thick. “When you sealed the room, I watched every step. I crawled right out and never went back.”

Hermione’s robes strained as she crossed her arms, the runes above her flickering in response. “Maybe, like Rowena’s diadem, it calls to you,” she whispered. “What if you never truly hid it? What if—”

A flush of indignation swept Harry’s cheeks. “I did hide it, Hermione. I walked away.” He clenched the coin until his knuckles whitened. “I’ve never consciously gone back.”

Ron shifted beside them, the bed creaking under his weight. “Hermione’s worried because we don’t understand its magic,” he said quietly. “But it’s not Harry’s fault if it moves itself. Remember the locket? We all held it. It dragged us apart, and none of us meant to give in.”

Hermione drew a shuddering breath, then let it slip away. She leaned forward, brushing stray hair from her face. “You’re both right,” she admitted, voice raw with fatigue. “I’ve been obsessed with researches lately… dark binding, containment wards, Horcrux runes… We’re racing Malfoy’s deadline. He’ll dump that diary in Ginny’s cauldron again if we’re not ready.”

Hermione’s eyes darkened as she squeezed Harry’s hand. “Last time, we had no idea it was a Horcrux. We treated it like an ordinary enchanted diary like something we could tear apart, burn, or rip pages from without consequence.” Her voice dropped to a ghostly whisper beneath the warded canopy. “Do you remember what happened when we first tried to destroy it?”

Harry nodded, the memory like ice. It had been just after the school term restarted, when Ginny had vanished into the Chamber of Secrets for the first time. They had dredged the diary from her shaking hands in the girls’ bathroom, thinking to incinerate its pages in the trophy room fire.

Hermione leaned forward, eyes bright in the half-light. “We held it over those roaring flames, my wand arm shaking so badly the diary spun in Harry’s fingers. Instead of turning to ash, the pages darkened, curling away. Flames spat back at us in shards of black fire that scuttled across the stone floor. You were thrown clear into the statue of Helga Hufflepuff. Ron, you and I were slammed against the tapestry as though an unseen fist had punched us.”

She swallowed. “Then the Basilisk awakened. It poured through the pipes at the edge of the room, its scales glinting in torchlight. Colin and Justin were petrified before we knew what was happening. Filch’s cat was gone… just a smear of fur on the wall. Ginny… she was already pale as death when we dragged her out.”

Harry’s throat tightened. He could still hear Ginny’s whimpers in the infirmary, the echo of her sobs when she woke.

Hermione continued, voice trembling, “We tried again. This time copying pages into charmed parchment, hoping the original would break when we peeled it away. But the diary seemed to mend itself, the text rippling and glistening as if alive. When Ron tried to sever a line with his knife, his blade bent and shattered. Then the voices started, whispers in our ears urging us to read, telling us we were too late to save Ginny.”

Ron’s hand found Harry’s other one, palm to palm. “I can still feel the shock of it,” he admitted. “The way it seemed to leer at us, daring us to burn it.”

Hermione drew a shaky breath. “We finally destroyed it only because you plunged the basilisk fang through its centre. The ink sizzled during that final moment like venom before the diary went still. But not before fragments of Tom Riddle’s memory seeped into the castle’s wards and almost overwhelmed Dumbledore’s protective charms.”

She looked between them, urgency flaring. “That mistake cost us weeks of recovery, dozens of petrified friends, and nearly Ginny’s life. We cannot let it happen again. Now that we know it’s a Horcrux, ordinary destruction only makes it more dangerous—more alive. That containment box is our only safeguard.”

Harry pressed their hands together. “We’ll get it,” he promised, voice soft but adamant.

Hermione closed her eyes, leaning into the warmth of his promise beneath the silent runes overhead. “Good,” she whispered. “Because this time, we’re going to hold it, bind it, and lock it away properly before it can call to us again.”

Outside the silencing ward, the castle lay in heavy stillness. Inside, three friends steeled themselves against the memory of past failure, determined to outwit a darkness they had once underestimated.

Hermione drew a shuddering breath, then squared her shoulders beneath the glowing runes. “We need answers,” she declared, voice low and steady inside the Silencio Circle. “Is the ward around the bed still strong?”

Harry glanced up at the faint pulses of crimson runes threaded through the curtains. “It held for weeks—no breaches,” he confirmed.

“Good.” Hermione tightened her grip on her wand. “I’m going to cast every detection spell I know: Revelio, Invenio, Detectus Metallum, Partis Temporus… even the darkest diagnostic charm I lifted from the Black family library.”

She tapped the coin with a precise flick of her wand. A swirl of green light blossomed, then died. There was no shimmer in the air, no crackle of power, not even the faintest echo of ancient magic responding.

Hermione’s jaw clenched. Without pause she launched into the next spell “Atmos Compositio Revelare!” and traced an arc in the air. Normally, swirling glyphs would display traces of carbon, oxygen, even residual magics in an object. Here, nothing appeared. No swirling letters, no ghostly charts… just emptiness.

She tried two more: one meant to detect soul-hooks, another tuned to dislodge hidden Horcrux spellwork. Each returned blank. Hermione’s shoulders slumped for the first time in hours.

“It makes no sense,” she whispered, eyes haunted. “It’s like the coin doesn’t exist at all.”

Ron and Harry leaned closer, brows knit. “But we can see it,” Ron said. “We’ve held it. Malfoy had it today and he’s not part of our loop.”

Hermione ran a hand through her hair. “I know. But even Nothing has substance. Air, dust, residual magic, my spells always pick up something. This… returns null on every level.” She closed her eyes, voice soft. “Everything around us is made of atoms, elements we can’t see. Even the castle’s stones hum with them. This coin behaves like antimatters if that’s even possible.”

A hush fell. Harry’s fingers tightened around the quilt. “If it’s antimatters… it shouldn’t be anywhere near here,” he muttered.

“Exactly.” Hermione’s tone turned fierce. “Which is why we have to hide it—properly this time—in the Room of Lost Things.”

Harry sprang up, eyes flashing. “Why bother? We tried that before and it reappeared directly in my hand the very next morning!”

Hermione held up a hand. “Because we can’t overwrite the possibility that the coin has a luring or hypnotic enchantment on you. You might never have put it there to begin with. If it’s calling you back, relying on memories, we have to remove your knowledge entirely.”

Ron exchanged a look with Harry. “She’s right,” he said quietly. “At least this way, if it reappears in your hand again, Harry, we’ll know it’s doing it on its own.”

Harry closed his eyes, the pulse in his temple thrumming. He felt the coin’s promise of power flicker against his skin, tug at his mind. He forced himself to nod. “Fine. We’ll do it again.”

Hermione’s lips curved into a determined half–smile. “Good. I’ll hide it where you couldn’t possibly guess inside the room of lost things. Wards, monitoring charms, detection circles, everything layered so the moment it moves, we’ll know.”

She gave Harry and Ron a brisk push. “No time like the present. It’s not late let’s go now.”

Grumbling, Harry and Ron fell into step behind Hermione as she slipped out from under the scarlet canopy. The corridor beyond the portrait hole lay cloaked in torchlight and shadow, the air cold against their skin. Footfalls echoed on flagstones worn smooth by centuries of student passage, and every darkened doorway seemed to hide prying eyes.

They turned a torchlit corner and nearly ran Neville down before they realized who it was. He lay curled in a heap of threadbare robes on the cold flagstones, pale gold hair dusted with castle dust, back pressed against the marble frame of the Fat Lady’s empty portrait. A faint chill hovered around him, and his breath came in quick, frightened gasps.

Hermione’s hand shot out to grip Harry’s arm. “Neville?” she whispered, voice catching on the echoing stone.

Neville stirred, blinking under the wavering torchlight. “I—I came back from the infirmary,” he stammered, voice trembling like a frightened mouse. “Madam Pomfrey wanted to check my wrist after that fall in flying class and I lost track of time. I…I forgot the password, and the Fat Lady has vanished from her canvas. I’ve been stuck here since curfew.”

Harry exchanged a sharp look with Ron. Somewhere in the depths of their minds, they all felt the loop’s cruel irony pulling them off course yet only the three of them truly understood why these missteps kept happening.

Hermione swallowed hard, the flicker of unease in her hazel eyes. “We can’t get back in,” she said softly, drawing closer so only Harry and Ron could hear. Her voice dropped to a tight whisper. “We can’t take Neville with us to the Room of Lost Things it’s far too dangerous. We need another cover story for slipping out at midnight.”

Harry squared his shoulders, adopting his most casual tone. He crouched beside Neville, offering a warm, reassuring smile. “Neville, Malfoy publicly challenged me to a duel in the trophy room tonight at midnight,” he said as though imparting the most thrilling of rumours.

Neville’s eyes widened, torchlight dancing in their green depths. “A duel? At this hour?”

Ron stepped beside them, voice quietly confident. “He won’t actually turn up; he’ll rat us out to Filch instead. But Gryffindor’s honour demands we accept. If we fail to meet him, he’ll spew everywhere that Gryffindor’s are cowards.”

Neville’s brows furrowed in confusion, but he nodded, trusting them too much to question.

He struggled to his feet, knees creaking. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered. “Take me with you. I don’t want to stay here alone, and the bloody baron’s been past twice already.”

Hermione let out a soft breath. “Stick close,” she murmured, offering Neville a tight smile. “We’ll lead the way.”

The four of them melted into the corridor’s shadows. Torchlight flickered along vaulted ceilings, and every suit of armour loomed like a silent sentinel. At one recess, they froze as distant laughter drifted past. It was Peeves, gleefully shocking a pair of seventh years with a rogue farting charm. Ron pressed himself flat against the damp wall until the giggling faded.

“Goodness,” Neville gasped once the laughter died away. “I never knew Hogwarts was so… alive at night.”

Harry peered down the corridor, eyes sharp. “Alive… and dangerous. Keep an eye out for Filch.”

A few yards on, they rounded another bend and froze as a patch of darkness shifted. A pair of squat boots scuffed against the flagstones—Argus Filch, his lantern casting long, grim shadows ahead. He strode past, muttering to Mrs. Norris: “Yes, my sweet. Find them… I know they’re close.”

Hermione’s heart hammered. She caught Neville’s elbow. “Move!” she hissed, and they slipped into a narrow alcove behind a tarnished door. Their breath came in ragged whispers.

Harry’s patience snapped. He kicked at the wall. “This is ridiculous,” he mouthed. “Ron! give me the Marauder’s Map.”

Ron drew the folded parchment from his robes and flicked it open. Across its surface, sepia footsteps scuttled through every corridor. A fountain of ink spread, revealing Filch’s route, Peeves’ swirl, and a hundred tiny heartbeats pulsing through Hogwarts’s hidden veins.

Harry traced a path with his finger. “This way,” he said, voice urgent.

Neville leaned close, eyes alight. “That’s brilliant,” he whispered. “It’ll get us clear.”

They slipped into the shadows of a narrow alcove, hearts pounding so loudly they might wake the castle’s ghosts. Harry pressed a trembling finger to his lips, then drew the Marauder’s Map from inside his robe. Its parchment edge curled in the torchlight, ancient ink glinting like whispered promises.

“Neville,” Harry began, voice hushed so even the mortar between the stones could not overhear, “this map... It was created by my father and his friends—Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs—when they were at Hogwarts. It shows every secret passage, every hidden door, and tracks every soul in the castle.” He let the map flutter open. “It’s the last heirloom my dad left me. If anyone else knew it existed, they’d try and take it from me. I’m trusting you with it because I think of you as a friend.”

Neville’s eyes widened, torchlight dancing across the map’s swirling corridors. His chest rose and fell in a determined rhythm. “I—” he swallowed hard, voice thick with emotion. “I swear on everything I hold dear—my parents, my grandmothers, even Trevor—that I’ll keep this secret with all my heart. I’m proud you trust me, Harry.” He slid a hand over his heart as if to seal the oath.

Harry’s shoulders sagged in relief. He tucked the map safely back into his robes. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Remember: this is our lifeline. Talk about it to no one.”

Hermione offered Neville a small, grateful smile, her wide eyes glinting with trust. Ron gave him an approving nod. Their friend circle, tested and bound by looping nights and narrow escapes, had never felt stronger.

Together, they crept onward, following the map’s guidance. Corridors stretched out like endless mazes, portraits muttered warnings as they passed; cold drafts whispered of dangers lurking in every corner. They ducked through a hidden doorway behind a tapestry of snarling dragons, stumbled down a servants’ stairwell, and finally emerged onto the third-floor corridor that hummed with a strange familiarity.

Hermione froze. “Here again,” she breathed. “Every loop pulls us back to this spot as though Hogwarts itself is forcing our hand.”

The walls streaked with age and mottled banners seemed to lean in, urging them forward. At the far end, the barred entrance to the Forbidden Corridor yawned like an accusing eye. Gargoyles perched above, their stone wings half-unfolded, ready to dive.

They crept forward under the wavering torchlight, hearts thudding like frantic woodpeckers. Every few steps, Neville glanced from one shadowed arch to the next, eyes wide with bewilderment. Harry, Ron, and Hermione fell into a tight huddle, voices low as sifted dust.

Hermione pressed her lips together, then exhaled so softly it was almost a breath of wind. “Look,” she murmured, nodding toward Neville just a pace away. “We can’t risk him knowing everything especially not about that corridor.”

Ron’s gaze flicked to a black iron door studded with rusted nails: inside, Fluffy the three-headed dog prowled, a menace the trio had dodged by mere seconds in every past loop.

Harry swallowed, his own heartbeat hammering between his ribs. “We never go near that door,” he whispered, recalling the last time.

They had entered that cursed corridor five times before, each loop ending in fresh horror. The first time, Harry had barely slipped through the door before Fluffy’s three snarling heads snapped shut inches from his wrist. He still tasted the copper tang of fear on his tongue as the dog’s slobber spattered against the iron studs. When Hermione tugged him back by his robes, she found streaks of dark red coursing through the stone floor, proof that a single tooth had nicked Harry’s arm more deeply than he’d admitted.

On the second attempt, Neville had volunteered to lead. Hermione watched in horror as he stepped a pace too far. A thunderous growl rattled the corridor like an avalanche, and in one fluid, brutal motion, Fluffy spun around, jaws opening wide. Neville’s scream echoed against the walls, then cut short. When Harry and Ron raced back to pry the door open, they found only tattered robes and a smear of blood, no sign of Neville’s left leg, not even a scrap of bone.

The third loop blurred into the fourth. Each time, Hermione’s wand would drop, or the map would slip, drawing them nearer to the dog’s fury. One moment, Harry stood frozen by the iron door; the next, he felt the shock of cold steel on his throat as a massive paw pinned him to the ground. The acrid stench of wet fur and warm blood filled his nostrils as he strove to crawl away. Only Ron’s improvised spell, haphazard and desperate, sent Fluffy rearing back, teeth bared, before they tumbled through a secret passage and vanished in a swirl of tapestry threads.

By loop five, they knew the precise angle of Fluffy’s lunge. They knew how each head hunted, which growl meant a bite for Harry’s shoulder and which meant a strike at Neville’s chest. They carried the echo of every broken scream, every visceral thud as flesh met fang. Hermione’s hands still trembled at the memory of that final loop: Neville’s shout, the sickening snap of bone, and the way Harry had blacked out mid-yell, his last sight a flash of crimson spraying the ancient stones.

Every scar they bore, Harry’s shallow slice across his forearm, Hermione’s scorched fingers from a rushed Protego, Ron’s bruised ribs, was a testament to how close they’d come to nothingness. They could not let that door claim another friend. Not tonight.

Neville shifted uneasily. He peered at the trio, trying to follow the thread of their hushed talk, but the words “loops,” “dog,” and “trapdoor” hung in the air like riddles he could not decode. He simply nodded, trusting them completely even when he did not understand.

Hermione placed a gentle hand on Harry’s arm. “It’s direct,” she said, voice barely above the hush of wind through the corridor’s cracks. “But if we step in there, he’ll catch us. We’ve seen every loop nearly end there.” She cast a quick, side-glance at Neville, whose confusion flickered to concern. “Neville, you stay right behind Ron. We’ve got another route.”

Neville’s eyes searched theirs. Even though he did not grasp the full danger, he read their urgency. He squared his shoulders and fell in line beside Ron, ready to follow orders.

A low, gravelly voice drifted through the corridor’s gloom, Filch, muttering to his lantern-wielding shadow. Beside him, Mrs. Norris padded silently, her eyes glowing like twin amber lanterns. “Can smell you lot,” Filch rasped, voice sliding against the stone walls. “You won’t hide forever.”

Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Neville froze. Every torch guttered as if the castle itself leaned closer to listen. Neville’s fingers tightened on Ron’s sleeve, heart pounding so loud he feared it might summon Filch before his words could.

Hermione exhaled, magic sparking in her gaze. “We split up,” she hissed. “Less chance all four get caught.”

Ron’s jaw clenched. He glanced at Neville, wide-eyed, trust unwavering, and nodded. “Right,” he said, voice low. “Neville, come with me down the east passage.” He jerked his head to the right, toward a narrow archway shrouded in shadow.

“Harry, Hermione—left,” he spat over his shoulder as he raced off. Neville followed, adrenaline turning his legs to pistons.

Behind them, Filch’s lantern swung into view, its light skittering across the floor. “Oi! You four—stop!” he barked, but the echo of departing footsteps swallowed his threat.

They tore through the corridor at full tilt, hearts hammering as the echo of claws and Filch’s shouts chased them. From down the hall came his gruff promise: “You lot won’t escape me! I’ll see you scrub floors ’til Christmas if I catch you!” He could not yet see who he pursued, but his fury shook the stones.

Filch veered right, lantern swinging, while Mrs. Norris slipped silently to the left. The caretaker barked a command over his shoulder: “Go catch them, Mrs. Norris! No hiding for you two!” And with that, Filch thundered after Ron and Neville as the cat fixed its glowing eyes on Harry and Hermione.

Harry and Hermione exploded around the next corner, boots skidding on the cold flagstones. Hermione grabbed Harry’s arm. “All the way to the steps!” she gasped. They sprinted past ancient tapestries whose embroidered faces seemed to leer at them, past suits of armour that loomed like silent judges.

Behind them, Mrs. Norris’s claws tapped a steady rhythm against the stone floor, each step closing the distance. Hermione’s lungs burned; Harry’s legs trembled, but they dared not slow. At a narrow archway they dove through, blade of torchlight slicing above them before guttering out.

They did not pause, hurtling straight into a short side passage. Hermione slammed a door behind them and dropped to the floor, yanking Harry down beside her. Outside, the cat rattled its claws against the wood, mewing in frustrated circles.

When the sounds faded, they seized the moment. Harry pushed the door open an inch, peered out—empty corridor. They bolted again, feet pounding, hugging the wall to keep out of sight. At the base of a winding staircase, they did not hesitate up they went, one step at a time, two steps at a time, until the air thinned and their sides ached.

At the top, the seventh-floor landing stretched ahead. Harry yanked open the heavy oak door to the Room of Lost Things. They tumbled inside, collapsing among towers of crates and battered trunks. Dust swirled in shafts of torchlight while their ragged breaths echoed in the cavernous vault.

Outside, the faint scrape of claws drifted past the door, then silence. Hermione pressed her hand to her pounding heart. “I never want to hear that mew again.”

Harry managed a shaky laugh. “We’re safe for now. But Filch will be furious.” He glanced at the map in his pocket, then back at Hermione. “Let’s make sure we stay one step ahead.”

Harry and Hermione collapsed onto the cold stone floor, limbs trembling, lungs burning. The vault stretched around them like a forgotten cathedral, towering shelves of broken wands, cracked cauldrons, and tarnished trophies loomed overhead, casting long shadows in the flickering torchlight.

Harry flung an arm over his eyes and groaned. “Bloody loop’s trying to kill us.”

Hermione did not answer. She lay flat on her back, one hand pressed to her ribs, the other limp at her side. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven gasps.

After a long stretch of silence, Harry sat up, rubbing his aching side. “We can’t stay here forever.”

Hermione nodded, then slowly pushed herself upright. “We need to hide the coin,” she said, voice hoarse. “Properly this time. No chances.”

Harry reached into his robe and pulled out the small pouch. The coin inside felt heavier than it should, as if it carried the weight of every loop they had endured. He held it out to her.

Hermione took it carefully, her fingers trembling. “Stay by the door,” she said. “I need to make sure you don’t see where I put it. If there’s even a chance you’re being drawn to it, hypnotized, sleepwalking, we can’t risk you knowing.”

Harry frowned. “You think I’m going to sneak back here in my sleep?”

“I think we don’t know what it’s capable of,” she replied, already moving toward the far end of the room. “And I’m not taking chances.”

He grumbled under his breath but obeyed, slumping against the doorframe and watching the flickering shadows dance across the floor.

Hermione disappeared behind a stack of broken desks and shattered crystal balls. For several minutes, Harry heard nothing but the soft hum of magic and the occasional whispered incantation. Then came the sharp crack of a ward locking into place, followed by the faint shimmer of monitoring charms weaving into the air.

When she finally emerged, she looked like she had run a marathon. Her robes were damp with sweat, her hair clinging to her forehead, and her face pale and drawn. She stumbled slightly, catching herself on a toppled bookshelf.

Harry’s frustration vanished in an instant. He rushed to her side, guilt twisting in his chest. “Hermione…”

She waved him off weakly. “I’m fine. Just… tired.”

“You’re not fine,” he said, voice low. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”

“I had to layer everything,” she murmured. “Wards, traps, monitoring spells… I used half the Black Library’s repertoire. And I already cast diagnostics earlier. My magic reserves are—” She swayed.

Harry caught her before she could fall, scooping her into his arms without hesitation.

Hermione gasped, cheeks flushing crimson. “Harry! What are you doing? Put me down! I’m too heavy!”

He tightened his grip. “You’re exhausted. You’re not walking back to the common room like this.”

“I can walk,” she protested, squirming. “I’m not a doll.”

Harry gave her a look. “Then I’ll cast Wingardium Leviosa on your clothes and float you beside me. Your choice.”

She blinked, flustered. “You can’t carry me all the way.”

“I’m a wizard,” he said, amused. “And Featherlight Charm isn’t exactly advanced magic.”

Hermione’s blush deepened. “I always forget I’m a witch when I’m panicking,” she muttered.

Harry chuckled. “Ron and I tease you about that all the time.”

She sighed, defeated, and rested her head against his shoulder. “Fine. But if you drop me, I’m hexing your eyebrows off.”

“No promises,” he said, grinning.

They made their way through the castle’s quiet corridors, Harry’s steps steady despite the weight in his arms. The torches flickered gently, casting golden light on their path. The silence was eerie, but peaceful, no Filch, no cat, no echoes of snarling beasts.

When they reached the portrait hole, Hermione stirred. “Do you think Ron and Neville made it?”

Harry glanced at the empty corridor. “I hope so. I really hope they didn’t have to face Fluffy.”

Hermione shivered. “That dog… I still hear its growl in my dreams.”

Harry nodded, pressing his forehead briefly to hers. “Let’s get inside. We’ll wait for them.”

The Fat Lady’s portrait swung open, and the common room welcomed them with warm firelight and the soft rustle of enchanted curtains. Harry lowered Hermione gently onto the nearest couch, her eyes already drifting shut.

He sat beside her, watching the door, waiting for Ron and Neville to return and wondering what fresh twist the loop would throw at them next.

The portrait hole cracked open with a hiss, and Professor McGonagall stepped through, her robes billowing in the warm common-room air. Ron followed close behind, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Harry and Hermione shot upright on the couch, heart hammering.

“Mr. Potter? Miss Granger?” McGonagall’s voice was quiet but sharp, each syllable edged with suspicion. Her dark eyes flicked over Harry’s dishevelled hair and Hermione’s sweat-damp curls.

Harry’s heart thudded. He glanced at Ron, who offered a subtle thumbs-up, everything was fine, he mouthed. Yet Harry and Hermione feared the worst: what if Ron and Neville had both been caught?

“I—Professor,” Harry began, voice thick with sleep. Hermione opened her mouth but only managed a strangled “Mmph.”

McGonagall crossed her arms. “It’s nearly sunrise. Why are you in the common room instead of your respective dormitories?”

Hermione stammered, cheeks flaming. Harry swallowed and tried again, but only a low grunt emerged.

Ron hurried forward, clearing his throat. “Professor, they were waiting for Neville and me. We got held up in the corridor.” He shot Hermione a desperate look, hoping she would back him up.

McGonagall’s brow rose. “I understand you might have awakened Mr. Potter when Mr Longbottom requested to go to the infirmary, since you share a dormitory…” Her gaze sharpened on Hermione. “But that doesn’t explain Miss Granger’s presence.”

Fear twisted in Hermione’s chest. Before she could protest, Harry burst out, “She wasn’t feeling well. Hermione felt feverish, and I was just coming to take her to the infirmary.”

Hermione stared at him, astonished, as if he had sprouted a second head. McGonagall’s eyes softened for the briefest moment. She studied Hermione’s flushed cheeks, the heavy sheen of sweat on her forehead, the slight tremor in her hands.

“Indeed,” McGonagall said, voice gentler now. “Miss Granger, you do look unwell.” Her expression hardened again. “I appreciate your loyalty to your friends, but if you require medical attention after hours, you must wake me or a prefect. The corridors at night are no place for wandering.”

Harry and Hermione stood sheepish, Ron shifted from foot to foot.

“Because all three of you have shown admirable concern for one another, I will not deduct house points this once. But if I ever catch you roaming these halls again, the next time points will be the least of your worries.”

She turned to them. “Mr. Weasley, Mr Potter, back to bed at once.”

Then she offered Hermione a hand. “Come along, Miss Granger. You’re coming with me to Madame Pomfrey.”

As McGonagall guided Hermione away, Harry and Ron watched in silence, hearts pounding with relief and the lingering mystery of what other dangers the castle’s endless nights still held.

They crept up the narrow stairwell, stumbling in their exhaustion toward the Gryffindor dormitory. Ron’s footsteps echoed on the stone, and Harry half-listened as his friend rattled off their late-night misadventure.

“Filch nabbed us just outside the third-floor landing,” Ron whispered, rubbing the back of his neck as they reached the staircase. “We tried to make a run for it but Neville tripped and broke his wrist again. When Filch caught us I told him I was only taking Neville to the infirmary.”

Harry suppressed a grin, picturing Filch’s scowl. “And did he believe you?”

“Not a bit,” Ron whispered, nudging Harry as they climbed the spiral stair toward the dormitory. “He marched us straight to McGonagall, muttering about curfew-breaking and detention. Then he tried to insist we’d been lurking near the Forbidden Corridor.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“You should’ve seen her she let him have it for failing to send any injured student directly to Madame Pomfrey.” Ron chuckled low. “Imagine that McGonagall screeching at Filch. It was glorious.”

Harry stifled a laugh, picturing the stern professor towering over Filch’s surly scowl. “That must’ve been brilliant. Filch never stood a chance.”

“Exactly,” Ron said, chuckling. “McGonagall bundled Neville off to the infirmary, apparently Madame Pomfrey wants to keep him overnight, make sure his wrist sets properly. Then she marched me back here, lectured me on responsibility, and I got an extra long scolding about wandering after curfew.”

They reached the landing outside their dorm. Harry pressed the door opened and slipped inside. “So no points lost, no detentions?” he asked, kicking off his boots.

“Not a one,” Ron said, falling onto his bed and pulling back the covers with a satisfied grin. “Professor McGonagall was in no mood to punish us further she said my loyalty to my friend earned us a reprieve.”

Harry climbed into his own four-poster.

“What about Hermione?” Ron asked, settling against the pillows. “Is she all right?”

Harry nodded. “She pushed her magic so hard warding that coin it drained her completely. We escaped Mrs. Norris without trouble, got to the Room of Lost Things, but after all that spellcasting she ran out of power. She could barely stand by the time we made it back.”

Ron’s brow furrowed with concern. “Good thing McGonagall got her to the infirmary. She could use a chance to rest.”

A quiet settled between them, a comfortable hush after the night’s frantic chase. Harry slid an arm under his head. “I can’t believe we didn’t lose any points. We didn’t get detention. Maybe fate was finally giving us a break.”

Ron yawned and stretched out. “I’ll sleep better than I have all week.”

Harry stared at the ceiling as the castle outside settled into dawn’s soft glow. Fate had granted them a reprieve, tonight was theirs to rest. But as the first birds woke beyond the towers, Harry could not shake the feeling that something darker waited just beyond tomorrow’s sunrise.

Chapter Text

Breakfast light slanted through the towering windows of the Great Hall, gilding long rows of polished tables in honeyed gold. The air thrummed with the clink of cutlery and the soft murmur of students enjoying the rare Saturday breakfast, steam curling from mugs of cocoa. At the far end, the Slytherin table gleamed with green and silver banners. Draco Malfoy lounged among his housemates, eyes glinting as he surveyed the empty seats where the golden trio should have been.

“They must’ve been caught,” Draco drawled, leaning close to Crabbe and Goyle. “Serving detention or worse, expelled by midnight.”

Crabbe snorted, and Goyle’s laughter rumbled like distant thunder. Across the hall, the Gryffindor table gawked at the empty places—no Harry, no Ron, no Hermione, no Neville.

Before Draco could relish the moment further, a silhouette in black glided past. Professor Snape’s dark robes whispered against the stone floor. Heartbeats slowed at his approach; Slytherin faces turned eager.

“Professor,” Draco piped up, voice coated in curiosity, “I hear the Gryffindors have been sacked. Is that true?”

Snape’s gaze flicked over the table, his smile thin as a razor’s edge. “Miss Granger and Mr. Longbottom are in the infirmary,” he replied, tone neutral yet unmistakably pleased. “The rest remains enrolled.” He swept on, leaving behind a ripple of triumph and fresh speculation.

Outside the Great Hall, corridors lay unusually quiet. With no classes to attend, students drifted in clusters through the castle, lounging in corridors, visiting the library, or playing games on the lawns. Yet no one glimpsed the missing Gryffindors. Hurried whispers followed every prefect, and even Filch paused at doorways, peering down empty stairwells.

By mid‐morning, the Great Hall’s side tables for tea and pastries held half‐drunk cups and untouched scones, abandoned by rumours and curiosity. Hushed questions floated from Ravenclaw’s alcoves and Hufflepuff’s cozy corners: Where were the four first years? Had they fled the castle? Even the owls on the windowsills hooted anxiously at the empty perches.

When the lunch gong finally rang, its echo seemed to shake loose every theory in the castle. Students tumbled into the Hall, chasing plates heaped with roast beef, root vegetables, and crusty bread. At the Slytherin table, anticipation crackled. Draco sat forward, fingers drumming on the bench as if conducting the room’s excitement.

“Since Granger and Longbottom are in the infirmary,” Draco began, voice low but carrying, “and Potter and Weasley vanished all morning… what do we reckon happened?”

A ripple of excitement passed through the first years clustered around him. Pansy Parkinson was the first to lean in. She nudged Blaise Zabini, eyes alight. “I heard they tried to steal the Sorting Hat for study, and it snapped at them. Hat-bite seems fitting for Granger.”

Blaise’s lips curved into a sardonic smile as he leaned across. “I heard they tried to charm Madam Pince to fetch them a book from the Restricted Section. She screamed, chaos ensued, and off they bolted.”

From the other end, Theodore Nott offered a quieter suggestion. “I spotted Mrs. Norris prowling near their dorm at dawn. Maybe the cat led them on a wild chase through the boiler rooms. I heard Mrs. Norris yowled something fierce last night.”

Millicent Bulstrode slammed her fist, rattling plates. “Too tame. I say they found one of those ancient artifacts in Filch’s office! Jerked around by a basilisk fang or cursed quill. Got petrified by ancient magic.”

Vincent Crabbe, plate forgotten, grinned. “Maybe Weasley’s wand backfired. They’re touring the Forbidden Forest and sleeping under a troll’s armpit as we speak.”

Gregory Goyle let out a throaty laugh and pointed at the empty seats. “Bet they missed home and ran back to their mommy.”

Draco drummed his fingers on the table, savouring every theory. “Or perhaps they found a secret flight of stairs and landed straight in the forbidden corridor. You know, with that bespectacled troublemaker leading the show.”

A chorus of hissing approval answered him. Even second-years felt emboldened to spin wild yarns: that Hermione had tried to charm a gargoyle, that Ron accidentally turned the Fat Lady into a troll. Every rumour more outrageous than the last.

Every fresh suggestion built upon the last, until reality flickered behind a tangle of mischievous possibilities. Through it all, Draco’s laughter echoed the loudest, his pale features alight as Slytherin’s first years revelled in every tangled rumour and the promise of more gossip yet to unfold.

Across the Hall, the Hufflepuff table hummed with uneasy chatter. Susan Bones stabbed at her porridge, ivory fingers white-knuckled around the spoon. Every few bites, she glanced up at the empty Gryffindor seats and then back at her bowl.

“I’ve had it,” Susan muttered to Hannah Abbott beside her. “All morning I’ve searched every corner, common rooms, corridors, even the greenhouses and there’s no trace of Potter or Weasley.”

Hannah gave her a worried look. “You did hear Malfoy say Granger and Longbottom were in the infirmary,” she reminded Susan softly.

Susan’s jaw clenched. “In the infirmary,” she repeated, laden with frustration. “All right! If Granger and Longbottom are hurt, at least I know where to look.” She slid from the bench, patting her robes to settle them, and strode from the Hall before anyone could stop her.

The castle corridors felt cavernous on a Saturday, torchlight flickering against empty walls as Susan hurried past silent portraits and locked classroom doors. She passed a pair of yawning first‐years duelling with wandering wands, a hush of curiosity following her until she reached the double doors of the infirmary.

A soft click, and she pushed them open. Inside, the antiseptic scent washed over her. To her right, Neville sat propped against crisp white sheets, his left arm in a neat sling, eyes bright behind anxious brows. Hermione lay on the opposite cot, a warming charm rippling across her pale cheeks as she tucked a dark curl behind her ear. Harry and Ron lounged on low stools between them; their heads bowed in quiet talk.

Susan’s boots paused on the tiled floor. Relief washed through her. No gaping wounds, no look of deep fever. Only Neville’s hand trembled slightly when he waved hello, and Hermione looked tired. Yet her eyes brightened at Susan’s approach.

Susan folded her arms across her chest. “So, this is where you’ve been,” she said, voice cool. “Don’t you think you owe me an explanation? I’ve spent half the morning chasing rumours that you were docked points, expelled, petrified—you name it.”

Harry lifted his head, cheeks reddening. “I’m sorry, Susan. We didn’t mean to worry you.” He glanced at Ron, then back to her. “Hermione and Neville were really unwell—”

Susan cut him off with a sharp breath. “I know they’re hurt. I’ve seen Neville’s arm. Hermione looks pale. But I’m not your personal owl. Next time you vanish, don’t expect me to search everywhere for you.”

Without ceremony, Susan crossed the small space and pressed the letter into Harry’s palm. Her voice, low but sharp, cut through the infirmary’s hush. “Aunt Amelia sent this for you. You owe me double Potter.”

Harry’s green eyes flicked up, anxiety sharpening his features. He stood so quickly the stool scraped, and Madam Pomfrey shot a warning glance over her shoulder. Ron straightened too, confusion etched across his face. Hermione sat up, concern warring with curiosity. Neville’s hand inched toward his sling.

Susan held up a hand, jaw set. “Come with me.” She drew Harry gently by the elbow toward the door, leaving the others blinking in her wake.

Outside, the corridor’s torches cast long shadows against ancient stone. The castle felt empty, perfect for secrets. Harry unfolded the parchment with deliberate care, smoothing its crease lines against her palm. The parchment smelled faintly of lavender and stern paper, the script looping in Amelia Bones’s precise hand.

“I have accepted my niece’s request for an urgent meeting,” it read. “However, as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I cannot appear at Hogwarts without a valid pretext. Please propose a credible reason for my presence on school grounds.”

Harry’s throat tightened. This was perfect. Amelia knew nothing of Peter Pettigrew or Sirius Black. She only knew her niece vouched for Harry. And now she needed a cover story.

Susan’s brow furrowed. “She wants a reason… something official.”

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, weighing every word. “Tell her,” He said finally, voice low, “that as Head of DMLE she’s conducting a security review of Hogwarts during the Halloween feast, accompanied by a team of Aurors. It’s the only way she can step foot here without raising eyebrows.”

Susan tucked the letter back into her robes. “Halloween feast, security review, Auror detail. Got it.”

Harry exhaled, relief flushing his face. “I can’t explain more… I promise she won’t come for nothing. Lives could depend on it.”

Susan gave a curt nod, the tension easing from her shoulders. “I’ll draft it tonight. But next time you need me, don’t vanish without a word.”

He managed a grateful smile. “Thank you, Susan. Really.”

Together, they retraced their steps to the infirmary, the castle’s hush wrapping around them as they prepared for a secret plan that could change everything.

***

Malfoy could not believe his eyes when the four Gryffindors strutted into the Great Hall for dinner. They looked perfectly fine, even cheerful, as though they had never been hurt at all. Curious glances followed them across the long tables, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione simply waved at their friends and took their seats.

Midway through the main course, a sudden hush fell over the hall. Six great horned owls wheeled in from the enchanted ceiling and alighted in a neat row before Harry’s place, each bearing a corner of a massive, ribbon-bound parcel. A seventh owl dipped low and let a single envelope flutter to the table. Harry slipped the note from its seal and read it in silence.

He refolded the parchment and set it down with a small, satisfied smile. Ron leaned in, elbow on the table. “Let me guess… another Nimbus 2000?”

Hermione’s grin turned wry. “She never fails. Every time loop we start this year over, Professor McGonagall outdoes herself.”

Harry nodded, brushing gravy from his chin. “She says to wait until we’re out of the hall.” He tapped the parcel. “Training begins Sunday morning with Oliver Wood.”

Hermione gave him a mock salute. “Nineteen Nimbus in nineteen loops. Your Seeker skills must be improving.”

When dinner came to an end, the trio rose and tucked the parcel under Harry’s arm. They knew Draco Malfoy was waiting at the foot of the marble staircase with his two cronies. Sure enough, as they reached the bottom, Malfoy’s sneer cut through the chatter.

“Planning to sweep the pitch with your expensive new toy, Potter?” he hissed, arms folded.

Before Ron could retort, Harry tapped a loose brick in the wall. A section swung open, revealing a dark passage. In one fluid motion they slipped inside; the panel clicked shut, muffling Draco’s outraged shout.

On the other side, hidden in shadow, Harry grinned at his friends. Behind the stone, only Draco’s furious threats echoed faintly: “My father will hear about this—just you wait, Potter!”

But Harry, parcel in hand, simply laughed. Sunday’s training could not come soon enough.

***

Time slipped away on silent wings, and soon the long tables of the Great Hall groaned under golden platters of pumpkin pasties, crystal bowls full of candies, and bubbling cauldrons of syrupy false blood. Flickering jack-o’-lanterns dangled from the enchanted ceiling, casting dancing shadows across eager faces. But at the Gryffindor table, Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat stiffly, wands half-hidden beneath their robes, eyes darting every which way.

They remembered the first loop more vividly than any feast. Hermione had vanished into the girls’ bathroom, her sobs echoing off tiled walls. Harry’s heart had leapt when he heard her screams and then shattered when the troll’s club swung free. He had fallen to the cold stone floor, life draining out as the world went black. That blow had reset everything, burying them back at the start of year one, the first loop that trapped them in an endless cycle.

In the second loop, they had tried a different plan: Hermione and Ron regrouped in an empty corridor while Harry stalked the troll with Hermione’s voice echoing ahead. But the creature turned and caught Neville Longbottom in its path. Neville’s final, terrified cry still echoed in Harry’s dreams, and the loop began anew before the last echo died.

Even in later loops, no strategy stuck. Sometimes it was Justin Finch-Fletchley, cornered in a broom cupboard; other times a stray third year who followed Harry into the wrong corridor. Every failure rebirthed them in September, heavier with grief but wiser to the troll’s patterns.

Now, as the enchanted pumpkins swung above, Harry’s fingers tightened around his goblet. Across the table, Ron forced a smile, and Hermione sat so still her quill trembled in its inkwell. No one spoke of their deaths or the students they could not save, yet the dread sat between them like a summoned spectre.

The hall’s laughter felt brittle. Every scrap of silverware sounded like a warning. In their minds, the troll’s ragged breathing still prowled these halls. Nobody would be crying tonight, but none of them could swallow a single bite.

A distant clang made Harry freeze mid-chew. His scar stung. He glanced at Ron, whose knuckles went white around his fork. Hermione’s hazel eyes flicked toward the head table, where Dumbledore’s gentle smile offered no comfort. They were trapped in an old nightmare, racing the clock for one more chance to survive, one more chance to save everyone before the troll struck again.

Professor Quirrell’s robes whipped through the doors as he stumbled in, eyes wide with panic. “Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know” he choked out before keeling over in a heap, wand skittering across the flagstones.

A ripple of screams cascaded down the tables. Plates rattled, goblets toppled, first-years shrieked and clung to older siblings. In an instant, Dumbledore’s wand snapped from his sleeve. He tapped it sharply, and a volley of purple firecrackers shot out, trailing glittering sparks and detonating with pops like distant thunder. Silence fell so suddenly it felt as though the Hall itself was holding its breath.

Dumbledore strode forward. “Prefects, lead your houses back to their dormitory immediately.” A hush of relieved whispers rose until Harry vaulted onto the Gryffindor table.

“No, Headmaster—wait!” he bellowed, voice cracking but steadying as everyone turned to him.

A dozen pairs of eyes went wide. Professors shifted, McGonagall’s jaw tightened, Snape’s lips thinned, even Flitwick stilled mid-twirl. Yet Dumbledore’s expression softened. He leaned forward on the edge of the High Table, hands steepled, gaze fixed on Harry. The twinkle behind his glasses deepened, as if amused and proud all at once.

“Mr. Potter,” he said, voice low and patient, “by all means, speak your mind.”

Harry squared his shoulders, meeting Dumbledore’s steady gaze. “The Slytherin and Hufflepuff common rooms lie in the Dungeons. If the troll roams there, it’s far too dangerous to send those Houses below. And we can’t be sure it stayed there; the beast could be anywhere.”

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully, strokes of his silver beard catching the lamplight. “A keen observation,” he murmured, tone approving yet gentle. “And what would you have us do instead?”

“Everyone stays here, in the Great Hall,” Harry said, voice rising with Gryffindor courage. “Prefects should take a head count right now. If any student is missing, they report directly to the nearest professor. Then we seal and ward these doors to keep the troll out while you hunt it down and rescue anyone stranded.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the students. For a heartbeat, Dumbledore’s face glowed with admiration. He rose fully, voice ringing with warmth and authority both: “A most sensible plan, clear, swift, and protective of our students. Fifty points to Gryffindor, Mr. Potter, for quick thinking and bravery in speaking for everyone’s safety.”

The prefects fall into a rigid semicircle around the edge of the Great Hall, torches flaring orange in the drafty shadows. Each holds a parchment roll, knuckles pale beneath the wavering glow. As their voices rise in deliberate cadence, the silence ricochets off the vaulted ceiling, every syllable “Here!” and “Present!” ringing like a heartbeat in the hush.

Cedric Diggory’s voice quavers as he reads from his list. “Abbot Hannah… missing.” Across the Hall, Percy Weasley’s hand tightens on his quill. “Jordan Lee… also not here.” Two names already, two tremors through the gathered students. Professors McGonagall and Sprout exchange a glance, even Snape’s dark eyes flicker with concern.

Dumbledore stands at the High Table, robes gathering around him like starlit mist. His half-moon glasses reflect the torchlight, turning his gaze into twin pools of serene knowledge. He raises a hand, fingers slender and steady. “Thank you, prefects. Please watch over our students there....”

Before the prefects can stir, the Great Hall’s enchanted doors crashed open, and a gust of corridor air swept through, smelling of damp stone and graphite torches. Amelia Bones entered, robes taut at her shoulders, flanked by four Aurors whose eyes darted like hawks.

Dumbledore rose from the High Table, his silver beard flickering in torchlight. Above those trademark half-moon spectacles, his brow knitted into a deep furrow, an unspoken warning. Professor McGonagall’s posture snapped rigid, fingers tightening around her wand. Snape’s dark eyes glimmered with distrust; even Flitwick, the most genial of them, looked ready to bolt.

Bones lifted her chin, deliberately calm. “Headmaster, professors… Ministry business rarely needs levelling at your gates, I know. But tonight, we share one goal: keeping these students alive.” Her voice carried over the hush, firm but respectful.

Dumbledore’s tone was soft, but each word clipped the air. “Madame Bones, Hogwarts is a sanctuary. We cannot have Aurors roaming our halls on a whim.”

A flicker of apology passed over Bones’s face before resolve hardened her features. “Not on a whim. We intercepted a credible tip: someone intended to release a troll in the corridors as a Halloween prank. A few students are missing. If that creature isn’t found within minutes, it could turn deadly.”

McGonagall exchanged a glance with Snape: grim acceptance in her stern-blue eyes, reluctant consent in his. Sprout’s quivering smile betrayed excitement under the weight of responsibility. Bones pressed on, voice urgent. “My Aurors have non-lethal restraints and advanced Stunning Charms perfected for trolls. Allow us to hunt it down. You, professors, know every secret passage and hidden stair in this castle. You must lead the search for the missing students.”

Silence fell again, thick with the knowledge that any delay might cost lives. Dumbledore drew in a slow breath, hands clasped behind his back. His spectacles caught the torchlight until they shone like points of resolve. “Very well,” he said, voice steady. “Aurors go after the troll. Professors find our missing students.”

Bones inclined her head. “Thank you, Headmaster. We depart at once.” She turned, drawing her Aurors into two precise ranks. Their boots clicked on the flagstones as they filed through the warded doors, wands at the ready. Behind them, the magical wards snapped shut with a resonant thunk.

In that charged silence, Hogwarts braced itself. Professors vanished into torchlit corridors, Aurors stalked the shadows after a lumbering threat, and every second ticked closer to salvation—or disaster.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione pressed against the edge of the now-vacant staff table, scanning the Great Hall. Everywhere they looked, students and prefects clustered in small knots, some faces pale and trembling, others puffing out chests in defiant bravado. Beneath the flicker of torches, first years wept into robes while anxious sixth- and seventh-year prefects tried to steady them.

Ron jabbed a finger toward the doors.
“Quirrell slipped out as the doors flew open. Didn’t see him after that.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed.
“He must’ve dashed for the forbidden third-floor corridor, probably to check the defences on the stone.”

Harry gave a short, wry laugh, shrugging one shoulder.
“Good luck making it past a three-headed, drooling guard dog.”

A shudder ran through a group of second years, and a fifth-year Ravenclaw prefect hushed them. “Quiet now, help is coming.” Her steady tone faltered only when a high-pitched wail cut through the hush.

Susan Bones appeared at their elbow, face ashen, auburn curls escaping her clasped braid. She stared at the table where Hannah Abbott’s friends huddled, their sobs echoing off stone walls. Hermione reached to touch Susan’s arm.

“Susan—”

Susan shook her off, voice harsh with practiced calm. “Don’t. I know you mean well, Hermione. But now that Aunt Amelia’s Aurors are hunting the troll, I trust her to find Hannah.” Her gaze flicked to Harry. “Tell me, Potter, how did you know a troll would turn up tonight?”

Harry’s throat went dry. The hall’s noise faded as all three friends exchanged a charge of concern.

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but Harry cut in, voice steady.
“I… didn’t,” he said, forcing a shrug. “It’s just… since that Halloween when You-Know-Who attacked my family, something always goes wrong each year on Halloween. I guessed… maybe something terrible would happen. Felt like the sort of darkness this night attracts.”

Susan studied his face, suspicion flickering behind pale eyes. Hermione’s cheeks coloured; Ron’s mouth twitched.

After a long beat, Susan exhaled and nodded once. “Fine. Just—” She uncrossed her arms, voice softening. “Be careful. I don’t want anyone else disappearing.”

Harry met her gaze. “We will.”

Harry offered a relieved half-smile. Ron blinked, and Hermione let out a small sigh. As Susan melted back into the sea of anxious faces, the trio watched her silhouette fade and felt the first real tingle of dread that Halloween had only just begun.

After what felt like hours, the Great Hall’s enchanted doors burst open once more. Professors McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and Sprout filed in, escorting the recovered students back to safety. Mud-streaked robes and scorched sleeves told their own story: shaken, yes, but alive. Outside, four Aurors stood sentry with their wands lowered, the troll unconscious and secured in enchanted manacles behind them.

A hush swept through the students. Dumbledore, robes brushing the flagstones, stepped forward, eyes alight and inclined his head toward Amelia Bones, who stood just inside the doorway beside McGonagall.

“Madam Bones,” he said warmly, “in all honesty, Hogwarts staff might have managed splendidly on our own, yet your arrival is deeply appreciated.” His voice was warm, but the words carried a soft edge, as if to say their help hadn’t been strictly necessary.

Amelia’s posture remained cool and professional. She gave a single nod, nostrils flaring very slightly as Dumbledore brushed off the necessity of her and her auror’s presence. His smile softened into something nearly apologetic as he added, “I imagine the Ministry will wish to remove both the troll and your team from Hogwarts grounds so as not to unduly alarm the community.”

Bones’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she glanced at the secured troll just beyond the door. “Headmaster, if I may ask, how did such a beast slip past Hogwarts’ renowned wards?”

Dumbledore’s smile was polished, eyes never faltering. He drew in a careful breath.
“I fully understand your concern, and I’m pleased to report that our defenses performed admirably save for this one regrettable lapse. Rest assured, we require no further Ministry oversight for routine matters of security.”

A muscle twitched in Amelia’s cheek, but she finally gave a curt nod. “Very well. My Aurors will return to the Ministry with the troll for containment.” She turned to her team, issuing silent orders. Outside, the four steeled themselves, then formed a single-file line down the corridor, troll in tow, their cloaks swirling through the archway’s shadow.

As the last Auror and the troll passed out of sight, Dumbledore’s expression grew gently rueful “Is there anything more you require before you depart?”

Amelia stepped fully into the Hall, eyes softening at the sight of her niece, Susan Bones, embraced by a circle of friends. Her voice was quieter now but no less firm. “As Susan’s guardian, I intend to remain until she is well settled.”

“Of course,” he murmured, forcing brightness to his expression. “Your niece’s welfare is paramount. I only ask you to be mindful of the hour, curfew is nearly upon us, and the students will need their rest after tonight’s trial.”

With that, he swept back to the High Table, leaving Amelia free to cross the torchlit floor and envelop Susan in a protective embrace. Outside, the corridor’s wards glowed faintly, and the last echo of the troll’s heavy breathing faded into silence. Hogwarts safe, for this Halloween night at least.

***

Moonlight filtered through the high, dusty windows, casting long shadows across the abandoned classroom. Motes of chalk dust drifted through the air, illuminated by a single flickering candle Hermione had retrieved. The stone walls seemed to lean in, listening.

Harry’s heart thundered in his chest as he pushed the heavy door closed. He heard Ron’s boots echo behind him, sharp, urgent. A cold draft whispered across the floor. Amelia Bones’s pale eyes, so like iced porcelain, gleamed in the dim light.  Every line of her posture spoke of endless years prosecuting dark witches and wizards.

“You asked to see me,” she said, voice low and controlled. Shoulders squared. “Explain. How did you learn of a Halloween threat, and why all this cloak-and-dagger secrecy?”

Hermione pressed her lips together, feeling the candle’s warmth behind her eyes. Her voice trembled at first. “We—” She swallowed, cheeks pale. “We couldn’t risk an owl being intercepted. This was too dangerous.”

Bones’s jaw clenched. “Dangerous enough to bypass Ministry channels?”

Ron’s fists clenched at his sides. His blue eyes flashed. “We didn’t dare trust even Harry’s owl.” His words came out in a clipped rush. “I know how deep Ministry corruption runs… I’d hear Dad whisper to Mum long after I was meant to be asleep, telling her how it sabotaged every case he took on.”

The flicker of surprise in Amelia’s expression was so brief it might have been imagined. She uncrossed her arms and leaned forward, folding the silence around them. “Very well,” she said, softer now. “Sit. Let’s talk properly.”

Four wooden chairs scraped against the stone floor as they arranged themselves around a scarred desk. Bones lingered standing until Harry’s insistent gesture broke her reserve. When she finally sat, her robes whispered across the flagstones. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat then opened them, razor-sharp.

Harry drew in a shuddering breath. Each word cost him something. “What do you know of Sirius Black?” His fingertips drummed the desk, a staccato plea.

Bones sat upright, lips pressed into a firm line. “He’s in Azkaban. Secure. No chance of escape.” Her voice was crisp, professional as though all emotion had been filed away.

“But what of his arrest? His trial?” Harry leaned forward so far, he could feel the chill of her robes.

Her eyes flickered, annoyance surfacing like a shadow. “Sirius betrayed the Potters, murdered thirteen Muggles, and killed Peter Pettigrew in a London alley. That’s what the trial record shows.” Her voice was crisp. Final.

Hermione exchanged a desperate glance with Ron. Harry’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You weren’t Head of the DMLE back then. You wouldn’t have seen the transcripts.”

Bones’s cheeks drained of colour. She squared her shoulders against his question. “That’s correct. I wasn’t. Why are you so intent on this?”

Ron’s voice cracked with emotion. “Peter Pettigrew is alive. He never testified. There was no trial transcript because there was no trial.” He leaned back, as if to brace himself for her disbelief.

“This is absurd,” Amelia snapped, then closed her mouth as if tasting her own words.

Harry’s palm slammed the table. Lightning in his veins. “Look in the Ministry archives! There is no record. No transcript for Black.” Short. Fierce. Convincing.

Hermione stepped forward, voice gentle. “What if we have proof… proof that Pettigrew is alive, hiding in plain sight?”

Silence fell like a guillotine. Bones stared at them, candlelight dancing in her eyes. A long moment passed. Then she exhaled, tension easing. “If you can present definitive proof,” she said, low and even, “I will reopen my department’s investigation. I swear I will follow the evidence.”

Harry’s shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly. Relief flickered in his chest, only to be replaced by determination. “I need more. I need your word that you will do everything in your power.”

A steely resolve settled over Amelia’s features. She rose, cloak swirling. “You have my oath. Bring me the proof, and I will tear this case apart until the truth stands clear.”

They shared a quick, nervous look. Hope, fragile as glass, bloomed in the candlelight. Harry unhooked a roll of parchment and laid it on the desk with reverent care.

“My dad left me this,” he whispered. “It bears the magical imprints of him, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew, like the talking paintings.” His voice caught on the memory, soft as regret.

Hermione’s eyes glittered. “We searched Hogwarts records. That’s when we found the official story: Black’s betrayal, Pettigrew’s death.”

Ron’s hand went to his pocket. “When Harry tried to question the parchment, we discovered it’s not simple enchanted parchment at all. It’s a map tracking every person on Hogwarts grounds. And right where Scabbers’s name should have been, the map instead showed ‘Peter Pettigrew’.” He let the sleeping pet emerge into the light. “In Transfiguration, we learned about Animagi. What if that rat was more than a rat?”

Bones took the rodent, her brow furrowing in concentration.

Hermione’s voice came in a low murmur. “We drugged him with Draught of Living Death, so he’d stay under while you examined him.”

Madame Bones let out a low, exasperated sigh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. Her shoulders stiffened, steel-blue eyes narrowing in silent reproach. She pressed her lips into a thin, stern line, the candlelight flickering across her pale cheekbones. “I won’t ask how you obtained such a restricted potion,” she said, her tone clipped and icy, each word heavy with disapproval.

A soft incantation left her lips, and Scabbers glowed blue with Animagus magic.

A hiss of astonishment escaped her. She traced the map. “Here,” she murmured, “it shows Peter Pettigrew right beside us in this classroom.”

Harry watched her face shift from scepticism to conviction. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It all fits. Black never betrayed my parents. Pettigrew did.”

Amelia placed Scabbers in a containment box with solemn care. “I will conduct a full inquiry at once. If you’re right, Sirius Black will be freed but it will take time. You must trust me.”

The trio exhaled together, relief mingling with anxiety. As Amelia swept from the classroom, clutching her box, Harry’s expression darkened.

“Do you really think she’ll do it?” Hermione asked in a whisper as they crept back toward Gryffindor Tower.

Ron’s shoulders slumped. “We’ve set everything in motion. We just have to trust her now.”

Harry paused on the spiral steps, touching the chipped wall as if seeking strength. “She’s our only chance. Whatever happens, we did the right thing.”

Distant laughter echoed from the portraits above. The Fat Lady swung open. They slipped inside, the portrait’s paint muttering a welcome.

But Harry lingered on the threshold, staring back down the dim stairwell. In the hush of Hogwarts, the weight of their secret settled around them and with it, a slim ember of hope, at last, that justice might find its way through the shadows.

Chapter Text

November arrived under a sky of pewter clouds, and Hogwarts stirred to copper leaves drifting through its corridors. In the Great Hall, students gathered at the long tables, eyes fixed on the enchanted scoreboard above the High Table: “Gryffindor vs. Slytherin – First Match of the Season.”

Whispers swirled: Harry Potter’s very first official Quidditch game. To everyone else, he was a rookie Seeker. Only Harry, Ron, and Hermione knew he had chased the Snitch more times than any student could imagine.

At the Gryffindor table, Harry spooned porridge with a calm smile. “Honestly,” he said between bites, “I’m not even nervous. Feels just like practice.”

Ron elbowed him. “Famous last words,” he warned, then glanced at Hermione. “We’ll be right there if anything goes wrong.”

Hermione reached across the table to squeeze Harry’s hand. “You’ve done this a dozen times already, but Quirrell will try something sneaky. Stay sharp, Harry. Ron and I will keep an eye out from the stand.” Her gaze flicked to the professors’ dais, where the turbaned figure sat like a coiled snake.

Harry nodded, confidence shining in his green eyes, yet grateful for their vigilance.

They stepped onto dew-slick lawns, mist curling around their robes. The castle receded behind them as the pitch rose into view, its goal hoops glinting through a fine haze. Banners snapped into frenzy, and a murmur rolled through the scarlet-and-emerald crowd.

Harry adjusted his goggles, the polished wood of his Nimbus 2000 gleaming at his side.

Lee Jordan’s voice crackled above them, bright and excitable. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the grandest spectacle of the season! Potter’s first official Quidditch match! Watch as Angelina Johnson threads the Quaffle through Flint’s iron guard, and Fred and George Weasley unleash their Beater mastery on those Bludgers!” His laughter danced across the stands. “And don’t miss Keeper Oliver Wood, standing firm like a fortress in front of those goal hoops!”

As the buzz of the crowd rose, Professor McGonagall’s voice cut through: “Mr. Jordan, focus on the start of the game, please.”

The sharp blast of Madam Hooch’s whistle sent broomsticks vaulting into the air.

Gryffindor’s Chasers surged forward, the Quaffle tumbling between their gloves.

Slytherin responded in a coil of silver-green determination: Marcus Flint barrelled forward, shoulders gleaming, while Johnson and Spinnet wove counterattacks like twin blades.

Leaves skittered across the field, caught in the wake of speeding brooms.

Harry felt the familiar thrum of wind against his face as he mounted his broom. Below him, Bludgers hissed through the air like dark missiles flung by Slytherin’s Beaters. Fred and George met them with blistering swings, sending the iron spheres veering harmlessly away. In the goal circle, Oliver Wood crouched, eyes alight, ready to catch anything that slipped past the front line.

In the Slytherin stands, Draco Malfoy cheered alongside his housemates as Slytherin scored the opening goal. Their green-and-silver voices rose in triumph, only to be met by thunderous roars from Gryffindor supporters when Harry’s team answered.

High above the chaos, Quirinus Quirrell sat in the professors’ stand, lips moving in a soft, relentless chant.

Harry’s Nimbus wobbled once, twice, a tremor at the broom’s core, as Quirrell’s curse brushed against every fibre of its wood. Each time Harry banked a sharp turn, the handle jerked as if alive, trying to hurl him into the grass below. Harry stiffened in the saddle, leaning into each turn, willing his broom to heed his will and not Quirrell’s enchantments.

Ron and Hermione stood near the professor’s stand; wand poised like a sprinter on the starting line. Their gaze never wavered from Quirrell, every muscle coiled for intervention. Yet both trusted Harry’s veteran instincts, this was his domain. Harry felt strengthened by their silent presence.

Back on the pitch, the scoreboard flicked ahead. Gryffindor was behind by forty points. Courage and desperation mingled in the air. Slytherin surged ahead with a gleaming slingshot of a goal from Marcus Flint; Gryffindor roared back when Johnson soared above the bludger barrage and sent the Quaffle spinning through the hoops.

Lee Jordan’s commentary crackled in between: “Johnson dances through danger! Those Bludgers are cracking like thunder!” The crowd surged to its feet, cheers ricocheting off the walls.

And then it happened.

The Golden Snitch flashed past Harry, like a heartbeat in his vision, sunlit and free. He calculated the angle: a six-hundred-foot dive, wind whipping his hair. He leaned over, stomach lurching, broom tilting downward. Quirrell’s curse rippled down the broom’s handle, but Harry’s jaw clenched. He leaned into the tremors, adjusting weight and grip to counter the broom’s growing thrash, his resolve was iron.

Above, Hermione whispered “Stupefy!” and the spell cut through the wind before striking Quirrell’s robes. With a strangled gasp, the professor pitched forward onto a vacant bench, his chant silenced at last.

Time cracked open. Harry lunged, hand outstretched. The Snitch’s wings stilled like a tiny star as his fingers closed around it.

An explosion of sound erupted below, thunderous approval, roaring triumph.

Gryffindor had won, 170 to 60, and the stadium trembled with jubilation.

Lee Jordan’s voice soared: “He’s done it! Potter clinches the Snitch in his very first official match! An absolute marvel!” His words shimmered through the cheers.

As they wandered back toward the castle, late afternoon sun breaking through ragged clouds, Harry, Ron, and Hermione shared quiet laughter. Mud spattered their robes, grass clung to their boots, but exhilaration warmed them more than any hearth. Hagrid’s hut loomed ahead, smoke curling from its chimney like a welcome beacon. Inside, steaming mugs and hearty grins awaited them—victorious seekers of friendship, magic, and a slice of rock cake.

***

It was a still mid-December morning when Hogwarts awoke beneath several feet of fresh snow. Icicles dripped from the eaves of the turrets, and every evergreen branch sagged under its white burden. Through the tall windows of the Gryffindor Tower, pale sunlight fractured into prisms across the frost-etched glass.

Inside, the fire crackled; the tang of spiced pumpkin pasties drifted faintly from the kitchens. Students in thick scarves lingered by the noticeboards, laughter echoing against stone walls. On one board, the holiday stay-over sheet fluttered, quills scratching new names into place.

Hermione prowled past the Gryffindor sheet for the third time, shoulders tense, fingers twisting the hem of her robe. Ahead, Fred, George, and Percy crowded the parchment. Percy’s signature sat neat and tidy; Fred glanced over at his brother, rolled his eyes, then stuck out his tongue before stepping back to let George through.

Harry and Ron appeared moments later, grinning as they added their names just below the Weasley signatures. Their quill scratches sounded like taunts of bravado.

“Don’t worry, Hermione,” Ron called, falling into step alongside her. “You’ve earned a break.”

Harry nudged her gently away from the sheet. “Enjoy Christmas with your parents,” he said. “We’ll hold down the fort, and the library’s not going anywhere.”

Hermione pressed a hand to the alcove wall, fingers trembling in the chill. Her breath caught, fogging the nearby window. “I can’t,” she whispered. “There’s too much to do. Horcrux research won’t finish itself. This is the perfect time to get ahead, while the castle’s quiet.”

Exchanging a look, Harry and Ron guided her toward a cozier alcove hung with the tapestry of the Pumpkin Pasties Feast. Flickering candlelight revealed stitched gourds and tiny dancing mice.

“Honestly, Hermione,” Harry said, voice low, “we know that’s not why you’re hesitating.”

She shook her head, voice cracking. “What do you mean?”

Ron perched on the arm of a nearby chair. “You’ve been dodging your parents all term. Why?”

Hermione’s eyes snapped shut. When she opened them, tears glimmered like frost on a windowpane. She drew in a shaky breath and spoke in broken bursts. “I… I did something last loop. They were in terrible danger, and I—I wiped their memories, sent them to Australia. It was the only way to keep them safe. Now I can’t face them… I don’t know if I deserve to.”

Silence settled like fresh snow. Harry reached out, covering her hand. “You did it because you love them. You did it to protect them.”

Ron’s voice dropped to a murmur. “Would you really blame yourself if you knew it kept them alive?”

She shook her head, tears spilling free. “But I erased who I was to them. I don’t know if I deserve to see them again. If I go home… I might not know how to act. I feel like I abandoned them twice.”

Somewhere beyond the tapestry, Fred, George, and Lee Jordan paused mid-conversation. They exchanged a quick look, then retreated into the corridor, leaving the trio’s circle intact.

Silence stretched, filled only by distant creaks of firewood and muffled laughter beyond the tapestry. “Hermione,” Ron said softly, “you didn’t abandon them. You gave them safety.”

Harry knelt beside her. “You’re not the only one doing the heavy lifting,” he reminded her. “We’ll keep your research moving. Give me your lists—cataloguing, transcription—and we’ll owl you update.”

Ron’s grin was gentle. “We owe you for every all-nighter you’ve rescued us from.”

Hermione blinked away tears, voice catching. “You’d do that?”

Harry nodded. “Absolutely.”

Hermione sniffed, her breath catching. “I—”

“Look at me,” Ron brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. When she met his eyes, he continued, “Do you really want to disappear from their lives forever?”

Her shoulders trembled. “No—no, but—”

“Then go home,” Harry said. “You’re their daughter, they love you. They’d want to spend Christmas with you. Let them fuss over you, burn the pudding. It’s all part of being family.”

Hermione inhaled, tension easing. When she opened her eyes, her nod was sure. “All right.”

Outside, the winter sun glanced between clouds, its rays fracturing once more into prisms across the snow. Hermione tucked her arms through Harry’s and Ron’s, warmth blooming in her chest. Christmas at home felt both terrifying and right because, at last, she was going back to the people who would always be her family.

***

Christmas morning light filtered through the tall, lead-paned windows of the Gryffindor dormitory, scattering fractured beams of gold across polished oak floors. The four-poster beds stood silent, heavy red curtains drawn back to welcome the dawn. Stockings brimming with candy cane-striped sweets twitched as though stirred by unseen fingers, and the garland draped around the bedposts rustled softly, as if drawing breath. A quiet hum of excitement drifted from the corridors beyond, punctuated by the distant tinkle of a portrait’s laughter.

Harry and Ron blinked awake, blankets pooling at their feet. Ron stretched, flexing his toes against the soft rug, and spotted two neat piles of packages at the foot of their bed. A faint ripple of enchantment made the gift‐wrap glow in various colours.

“Merry Christmas,” Ron whispered, nudging Harry’s first parcel with an elbow.

Harry sat up, rubbing his eyes. The air smelled faintly of pine from the garland and a hint of scorched sugar from the house-elves’ toffee ribbons wound around the banisters.

They exchanged a conspiratorial grin and dove in.

Ron’s hands shook with excitement as he peeled back crimson paper to reveal a snug maroon jumper embroidered with a gilded “R.” He held it to his chest, feeling the wool’s familiar weight. Beneath it lay a thick slab of Mrs. Weasley’s homemade fudge, steam still rising from its warm surface. He broke off a corner and tasted it, the rich sweetness melting instantly on his tongue.

“Perfect,” he sighed, tugging the jumper over his head. As the wool settled across his shoulders, he remembered Christmas mornings at home, his mum busy in the kitchen, his dad humming by the fire, his siblings racing down the stairs. Saying he’d hated these jumpers once felt as distant as their first Christmas’ loop itself.

Harry followed suit. Under green velvet paper lay his matching jumper, trimmed in silver thread with a graceful “H.” He slipped into its soft wool, the sleeves brushing his wrists like a long-lost hug. Then he unwrapped a chunk of fudge, the scent of vanilla and cocoa wrapping around him, and for a moment he thought of his Christmas before Hogwarts, when all he received from his relatives was a pair of old socks.

With jumpers safely in place, Ron and Harry turned to the rest of the presents. Ron watched as Harry opened a small box to find a hand-carved wooden flute, its surface polished to a soft glow. He turned it over in his hands, breath catching.

“What’s up?” Ron asked, eyebrow raised.

Harry studied the grain of the wood. “Hagrid gave me this,” he said quietly. “Think about it… he brought me to get the Stone at Gringotts, left that newspaper clipping hanging in his hut, so I’d find it… now he gives me a flute, the perfect tool to calm Fluffy. Doesn’t it all feel a bit too… convenient?”

“Honestly,” Ron said, looping an arm around Harry’s shoulders, “Hagrid’s the biggest softie this side of the Forbidden Forest. He isn’t playing chess for Dumbledore’s secret plans. He’s just Hagrid.”

Harry tested a note, soft and quavering like an owl’s call. The echoes faded into the dorm’s hush. He tucked the flute into his pocket. “You’re right. It’s just…” His heart pounded as he thought of how many times that flute had saved them. “Hagrid’s devotion to Dumbledore, his blind confidence, that’s his greatest weakness. He’s so eager to help he’ll do anything the headmaster asks.”

Ron shrugged, handing Harry a small, flat box. “Well, open your last present. We both know what it is.”

Inside lay the familiar shimmer of his father’s Invisibility Cloak, folded like a promise. Harry let it slide through his fingers, the silvery fabric breathing cold comfort. For a moment he felt time still. In that instant, he recalled every narrow escape it had granted him, the times it had hidden him from Voldemort, cloaked him from the Death Eater’s gaze. It was more than a tool. It felt like hope.

A sudden chime rang out overhead. Harry glanced up just as the silver coin he’d stashed beneath his pillow lifted from the bedposts and hovered between them. His breath caught; his pulse thundered in his ears.

“Blimey!” Ron jumped back, eyes wide.

Harry stared, heart pounding so loud he feared Ron would hear it. Time seemed to stretch, each second a taut strand of magic. Then the coin spun once, twice, and shot straight toward the cloak in Harry’s arms. In the blink it took for a heart to flutter, the cloak vanished, and the coin plinked onto the quilt.

They both lunged forward. Harry snatched up the coin with shaking fingers. It was warm, almost alive, in his palm. He turned it over, eyes widening at the Hallows mark: a circle, a line, and a triangle, yes but the triangle’s tip was blunt, edges gently curving outward.

“It… it changed,” Harry breathed.

Ron peered over his friend’s shoulder. “Changed how?”

Harry drew in a shaky breath. “Look at the triangle. It’s different from last time. It’s… rounded. Like the symbol just adapted to something new.”

He closed his fingers over the coin and willed it: Cloak.

With a shimmer of silver light, the Invisibility Cloak reappeared in Harry’s hands, rippling like liquid moonlight. Ron staggered back, jaw slack. “What in Merlin’s name?”

Harry pressed the cloak against his chest, heart hammering. “I think—no, it’s like the coin absorbed it… stored it.” He thought again, away, and the cloak vanished. Back, and it reappeared.

Ron’s eyes flicked between coin and cloak; disbelief etched on his face. He shoved Harry’s shoulder, voice low and urgent. “Harry, how did you get the coin under your pillow in the first place?”

Harry’s throat went dry. Clutching the coin, he met Ron’s gaze. “I… I don’t know. It just reappeared one morning.”

Ron’s voice cut through the lingering afterglow of Christmas magic. “Since when has the coin been reappearing?”

Harry’s hand tightened around the Hallows Galleon. The dorm’s quiet seemed to press in on him, stockings trembled, as if curious. “A while back,” he said, voice low.

Ron planted his feet on the rug, eyes narrowing. “When Harry? Be specific.”

Harry swallowed. He pictured Hermione’s determined frown when she’d slipped away with the coin into the Room of Lost Things. “The morning after Hermione hid it in the room,” he admitted.

“Bloody hell—” Ron exploded, flinging an arm into the air so hard a bauble tumbled off his stocking. “You’ve known for weeks, and you never told us?”

Harry flinched. Heart thudding, he stared at the coin as though it held every answer. His voice came out ragged. “I… I don’t have an excuse. I was stupid not to trust you.”

A gust of wind rattled the shutters, and for a moment the dorm felt as if it might be ripped apart. Ron’s chest rose and fell, the first tremor of anger softening to concern when he saw the guilt etched into Harry’s face. Yet disappointment hovered beneath his eyes, heavy as a ticking clock. He sank onto the edge of Harry’s bed. “All right. Tell me the real reason you kept this from us.”

Harry closed his eyes, trying to find the words in the hush between the hearth crackling flames. He remembered the coin’s whisper in his mind, drifting like a promise at dawn. “First… I was terrified you’d think I’d gone mad, that the coin was messing with my head.” He met Ron’s gaze. “And… it calls to me. Every morning it turns up in my hand, like it belongs there. I—I felt this connection, and I didn’t know how to explain it.”

Silence settled, thicker this time. Ron ran a hand through his hair. “None of that excuse lying to us.”

Harry’s throat closed. He dropped his head. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Ron’s shoulders sagged, frustration giving way to a gentler edge. He stood and paced a slow circle around the bed. “I’m not the one you need to worry about, though.” His voice dropped. “You should be bracing for Hermione.”

Harry’s breath caught. The memory of Hermione’s cool logic and the fierce protectiveness beneath it made his skin prickle. A distant clatter from the hallway sounded like a warning.

“I can already hear her,” Harry muttered, shuddering. “She’s going to go ballistic.”

Ron gave him a sharp look, tugging on the hem of his new jumper. “Honestly, you deserve it for being a moron.”

Harry grinned despite himself. “Maybe I can distract her with a ten-foot essay on the coin’s new feature.” He nudged Ron. “You know Hermione, she’ll insist on footnotes.”

They both laughed, the tension in the dorm easing for a moment. Ron glanced at the coin in Harry’s hand. “I must admit, though, this new storage bit is pretty handy. No more cramming the bloody Invisibility Cloak into our pockets.”

He held the coin out and cleared his throat theatrically. “Cloak—away!” Nothing happened. The coin sat cool and inert in his palm. Ron’s face fell.

Harry shrugged. “Try imagining it, not just saying it.”

Ron scrunched his eyebrows, closed his eyes, and whispered, “Cloak—away.” Still nothing. He opened his eyes to see Harry watching, bemused.

“Let me,” Harry said softly. He laid the cloak on the bed, raised the coin, and spoke with calm certainty, “Cloak—away.”

In a shimmer of moon-silver light, the cloak folded into itself and slipped inside the coin. Harry palmed the Galleon and winked at Ron. “Back…” The coin quivered, folded open, and the cloak reappeared onto the bed.

Ron’s jaw dropped. “That’s not fair! It only works for you!” He jabbed a finger at Harry’s chest. “What’s your secret?”

Harry’s eyes darted to the silver triangle etched on the coin. “I think it’s because I’m the cloak’s true owner. Maybe the coin only obeys whoever holds mastery over the Hallows.”

Ron slowed his pacing, eyes narrowing. “So… do you think this coin could lock away the Resurrection Stone or the Elder Wand just the same? Like a portable vault, store each Hallow inside?” He glanced at Harry, voice dropping to a whisper. “And when all three Hallows end up reunited in there, what then? Do they merge into something even more powerful? Or does the coin itself become the final Hallow?”

A low whoosh of laughter cut through their speculation as the dormitory door burst open. Fred and George Weasley tumbled in, robes swirling and scarves trailing, eyes gleaming with mischief.

George grabbed Ron’s arm. “Oi, you two! You haven’t misplaced the Weasley breakfast invite, have you?”

Fred shoved George aside just long enough to lean in conspiratorially. “And after breakfast, we’re launching a full-scale snowball match on the lawns. Don’t think you’ll escape un–pelted.” He winked at Harry and Ron. “Perfect way to test your dodging skills before the real magic begins.”

Before they could argue back, the twins were already bounding from the room. Percy, rounding the corner below, froze as he caught sight of them bearing down. In a blur of red and yellow knitwear, Fred and George clamped a bright Weasley jumper over his head and yanked his arms through the sleeves. Percy’s outraged yelp echoed down the corridor as he tried to tug himself free, their laughter trailing after them all the way to the stairs.

Harry and Ron exchanged a burst of laughter. Ron’s shoulders shook as Harry nudged him, both of them grinning at Percy’s muffled protests echoing behind them. Tucking the coin safely away, they hurried after Fred and George, laughter trailing down the corridor. Following them to breakfast, the coin’s mystery was tugged aside for now as their bellies grumbled with hunger.

***

Midnight had long passed when Harry and Ron slipped through the portrait hole, the Invisibility Cloak draped around their shoulders like living shadow. They crept down the echoing corridors, breath puffing in the chill air, hearts hammering with equal parts excitement and dread.

“Finally,” Harry whispered as they came to a halt before the barred door of the Restricted Section. “We couldn’t have tried this until we had the Cloak. Those wards detect any Disillusionment or Invisibility charm, and they’d trigger every alarm in the castle.”

Ron’s fingers curled tight on the finely woven fabric. “I know. Filch would have had us in his chains in seconds.” He hesitated, voice softening. “But with this…” He let the thought trail off as Harry lifted the latch. The iron-wood panel swung open with a soft groan, and they slipped inside.

Once beneath the high vaulted ceiling of the library’s inner sanctum, silence pressed against them like a living thing. Lanterns cast warm pools of light onto endless rows of leather-bound tomes, and dust motes danced in the quiet glow. Every footstep vanished on the thick carpet. Harry raised his wand. “Lumos,” he breathed, and a narrow beam traced gilded titles on cracked spines.

They moved in unison, scanning for the books they needed:
– Compendium of Ward Charms for Soul Protection
– Guide to Enchanted Vaults and Containment Circles
– Treatise on Animate Containment Rituals

Ron hooked his thumb under the Guide. “This says you can reinforce a chamber so no living essence can escape once it’s inside, exactly what our Horcrux-box needs.”

Harry tugged at the spine of the Compendium when a thunderous clang echoed overhead. A tower of books trembled, then spilled tomes onto the floor. Peeves erupted into sight, paint-spattered bucket in hand, inkpots and parchment swirling like confetti.

“Midnight mayhem!” he howled, flinging pages across the aisle. The poltergeist darted between shelves, scattering rare manuscripts with gleeful abandon.

“Duck!” Harry hissed, yanking Ron behind a low table as a rolling ladder hurtled past. A quill whizzed overhead, narrowly missing Ron’s shoulder.

Then came a wheezy roar. Argus Filch charged into the commotion, keys jingling so fiercely they rattled like a storm of bells. He swung his lantern, sending a lantern-beam across the floor, only to slip on a stray parchment and crash into a cart of chained reference volumes. Books cascaded around him in a deafening roar.

Before either boy could recover, the hiss of robes announced Professor Snape’s arrival. His dark cloak billowed, wand raised in a precise arc. “Silencio!” he barked. A wave of hush rippled out, but Peeves only laughed, the wards laughing louder with him. Snape’s scowl deepened. “Quietus!” he snarled, and this time the poltergeist’s cackle snapped shut like a broken latch.

Harry seized Ron’s arm. “Now!” He thrust the Treatise into Ron’s hands, tucking the Compendium under his own arm as Ron clutched the Guide.

Under cover of the Cloak’s fluttering folds, they bolted. Snarled curses and Filch’s thunderous footsteps chasing them. Then the world turned icy still.

They tumbled onto dew-slick grass in the courtyard. Harry lay for a heartbeat, chest heaving, as he tasted dew and exhaustion. No shouts followed, only the whisper of wind and distant sputters from Filch and Snape.

Ron scrambled up, panting. “Books?” he rasped, fumbling in his robes.

Harry produced all three volumes, spines unbroken. “Every single one.”

They paused for breath, lantern-light from a distant tower flickering across their faces. Then Harry pointed toward an abandoned classroom window, rims rimmed by moonlight. “There—through there.”

They slipped inside. The windows were boarded, spiderwebbed desks lay overturned, and at the far end stood a tall, dust-caked archway framing an oblong glass: the Mirror of Erised.

They skidded to a halt. Ron’s face darkened. “This blasted loop,” he muttered. “Always landing us in the night’s most dangerous corners.” He took a trembling step toward the mirror. “Should we… look?”

Harry’s hand hovered at his pocket, fingers brushing the heavy coin. “We’ve stared into it before. None of us ever vanished.”

Ron exhaled, squared his shoulders, and crossed the threshold first. Light pooled around him, and he froze as his reflection solidified. In the glass there he stood before the Burrow’s roaring hearth, surrounded by his entire family: Molly placing platters of roast turkey on the table, Arthur carving with a steady hand, Bill and Charlie exchanging laughter, Fred and George tangling Percy in a playful scuffle, and Ginny leaning on the mantel while just beyond the open door, Harry and Hermione stood smiling, waiting for him.

Ron’s eyes glimmered. Then he blinked, the vision flickered, and his jaw clenched. He looked back at Harry, an ache in his expression.

“Your turn,” he whispered.

Harry swallowed and stepped forward. For a heartbeat, nothing changed. The dusty glass reflected only the boarded windows behind him, the overturned desks, Ron’s tense silhouette at the edge of the frame.

Then Harry’s scar prickled, and the mirror shimmered.

The classroom faded, replaced by a vast, dimly lit chamber carved from obsidian stone. Cold light spilled from floating torches, casting long shadows across the floor. At its centre stood a raised platform, and upon it: a box. Ornate, ancient, sealed with runes Harry recognized from the books they’d just stolen. The Horcrux containment box. Finished. Perfect.

He felt his breath catch; a cold echo etched onto the stone settled in his bones. But it wasn’t the box that held him. From the gloom emerged a figure cloaked in black, skeletal hands gripping a scythe of bone and iron. Death itself—patient, silent—beckoning.

The coin in his pocket pulsed with warmth, as if responding to the vision. Around Death, fragments of memory shimmered: flashes of his parents’ smiles, Sirius’s laughter echoing through the night, Dumbledore’s eyes, bright, then dim. He saw Hermione’s furious face; Ron’s fierce loyalty sealed in blood and defiance. He saw himself, older, alone, standing at the edge of a battlefield littered with broken wands.

The chamber shifted again. Now he was back before the Mirror, yet in its reflection he held all three Hallows: the Cloak draped over his shoulders, the Elder Wand in his right hand, the Resurrection Stone glowing in his left. Above them, the coin hovered, spinning slowly, its edges now fully rounded, pulsing with quiet power.

And behind him, Death waited still.

Harry stumbled back, face pale, silence roaring in his ears. The vision faded, leaving only the dusty classroom and Ron’s concerned silhouette.

Ron stepped closer, his voice low. “You saw something. I can tell. What was it?”

Harry hesitated. The image still burned behind his eyes, the box, the Hallows, Death waiting like an old friend. “It wasn’t my parents,” he said finally. “Not this time.”

Ron frowned. “Then what?”

“A chamber. Dark. Cold. There was a box—the Horcrux box. Finished. Sealed. And Death was there. Not metaphorical. Real. Cloaked. Watching me.”

Ron blinked. “Death? Like… the actual Death?”

Harry nodded. “He didn’t speak. Just… stood there. Beckoning. And I was holding all three Hallows. The Cloak, the Wand, the Stone. But the coin was there too. Floating above them. Like it belonged.”

Ron looked uneasy. “That’s not what the Mirror’s supposed to show. It shows your deepest desire, right?”

Harry’s voice was quiet. “Exactly.”

Ron paced, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, your deepest desire is… what? To finish the box? To face Death? To—what, become him?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “But it felt right. Like everything was finally aligned. Like the loop ends there.”

Ron stopped pacing. “Ends how?”

Harry met his eyes. “Not with victory. With surrender. Or sacrifice. I think I’m supposed to give myself to it. To Death. That’s how we break the loop.”

Ron’s face twisted. “That’s mad. You’re not dying for this. We’ve fought too hard.”

“I’m not saying I want to die,” Harry said. “But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the loop keeps resetting because I keep trying to win. To survive. Maybe the loop ends when I let go.”

Ron was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “You know I’d follow you anywhere, mate. Even into hell. But if you think we’d let you die…”

“I know,” Harry said. “That’s why we shouldn’t tell Hermione yet.”

Ron gave a bitter laugh. “She’d hex the Mirror and drag you out by your ear.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Probably.”

They stood there, two boys in a broken classroom, staring at a mirror that had shown them too much. Outside, the wind howled through the cracks in the stone, and somewhere deep in the castle, time ticked forward, toward another loop, or maybe, finally, the end.

***

Hermione’s boots crunched on the frost-hardened gravel as she rounded the bend into the deserted corridor, returning to Hogwarts on the first day after winter break. Her cheeks still glowed from roasted chestnuts and her heart felt full of home, of her parents’ hugs, of her mother’s laughter in the kitchen, of her father’s quiet pride. She rounded the corner into the dim corridor and relief bloomed in her chest until she saw Harry, pale and tense, clutching the ancient silver coin, and Ron, standing stiff as a lightning rod.

“Hermione!” Harry blurted, dropping the coin into his pocket with a shaking hand. “We—”

She cut him off, voice low and brittle. “Why do you have that coin? Why didn’t you tell me it reappeared?”

Harry’s throat bobbed. He glanced at Ron, whose cheeks flared scarlet, then back to Hermione.

“We hid it in the Room of Lost Things, didn’t we?” Harry began. “You layered wards so dense I couldn’t have touched it without every alarm screaming. But at dawn, I woke, and there it was in my palm, smooth and cold as if it had flown there on its own.” He met Hermione’s glare. “I didn’t lie; I just didn’t tell you the truth… immediately.”

Hermione’s voice cracked. “That’s still lying!” Her fist slammed the stone wall, stirring dust in the torchlight. “I can’t believe you’d do that to me.”

Ron stepped forward, voice soft but urgent.
“Please, Hermione… Harry knows he was wrong. But at Christmas the coin went wild: it lifted itself, leapt onto his cloak, and vanished it whole before dropping back. It can house Hallows.”

Hermione’s breath caught. A thousand theories exploded in her mind. Her fingers itched for parchment as she rattled off possibilities faster than Ron could keep up.

Ron pressed on, voice trembling with excitement. “That’s why it returned to Harry. It’s keyed to the Hallows, waiting to safeguard them.”

A charged silence fell. Hermione’s world of logic and order snapped into focus. “Alright,” she whispered. “Tell me everything from the beginning.”

They slipped into the abandoned classroom near the astronomy tower, where the thick wooden door still bore students’ mischief. Hermione retrieved the battered tomes they’d smuggled from the Restricted Section, her quill poised. As she flipped through pages of arcane symbols, Harry produced a worn notebook and traced trembling lines inside: a box of impossible angles, warded hinges, runes that pulsed like heartbeat echoes.

“About what I saw in the Mirror of Erised,” Harry said, voice low, “we thought if I could truly accept death—really acknowledge it without fear—it might break the cycle.”

Hermione’s eyes widened as Harry’s confession echoed in the candlelight. Her quill slipped from her fingers, clattering against the desk.

“No!” she gasped, voice raw with panic. She jolted upright, hands trembling as she reached for Harry’s arm. “You’re not dying, Harry. I won’t let you face that. Never.”

Tears glinted at her lashes. “There has to be another way, some charm, some counter-curse. You can’t just… give up your life to break the loop.” She pressed both hands to his chest, heart pounding. “I refuse to lose you.”

Harry stared at her, guilt and relief warring in his eyes. Ron’s jaw clenched beside them, wand forgotten. In that charged silence, Hermione’s defiance became their north star; no sacrifice, no matter how ancient the magic, would stand against their friendship.

A tense hush settled in the candlelit room. Dust drifted through the glow as Harry swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate breaths. At last, he laid his trembling hand on the desk, gripped his quill, and steeled himself to continue.

Harry’s knuckles whitened as he drew a second, sharper sketch: the coffin-shaped box, warped geometry that defied Euclid. Each line felt like a confession. Hermione’s chest tightened with a mix of horror and fascination.

She swept aside stray parchment, quill dancing across frantic notes. When she paused, brow creased, she met Harry’s eyes. “So, it wasn’t your death but your unwillingness to let go that started all those loops?”

Harry’s voice cracked. “Each time I refused to embrace the end, denied it outright, that denial tethered us here, forced us to relive every loop until I learn to accept what I must.”

Hermione’s gaze hardened as Harry’s words hung in the candlelight. She set her quill down, eyes blazing.

“No, Harry,” she said, voice steady but fierce. “That’s just how you feel. It isn’t proof. We have no evidence that your acceptance of death will shatter the loop; it could just as easily bind us tighter. We cannot gamble your life on a guess born of fear.”

She swept stray papers aside and flipped back to Harry’s first sketch, fingers tracing runes.

“Time loops obey logic, not emotion. We’ll map each repetition, test every critical juncture, hunt for a pattern. Only once we have real data can we decide if any sacrifice, even yours, is necessary.”

Ron’s shoulders slumped. “I—I don’t want to see you die either Harry,” he murmured, wand trembling.

Hermione exhaled, her anger melting into determination. She rummaged through her trunk for a dog-eared glossary of archaic glyphs. Ron’s wand hand twitched as he circled the desk, eyes on Harry’s sketches. The coin clinked against the wood when Hermione flipped it in her palm, spotting a faint inscription around its rim, an incantation she didn’t recognized from her years of runic studies.

By candlelight, the three huddled over a clean sheet of parchment. Harry rendered the Horcrux box exactly as the Mirror had shown: its distorted planes, warded hinges, runes that seemed to bleed magic onto the page. Hermione crouched beside him, annotating each curve, her quill tracing protective sigils in the margins. Ron arranged miniature rune stones along the desk’s edge, ready for their first test.

No triumphant cheer sealed their covenant—only the fierce glow of shared resolve. Three friends, bound by truth and terror, poised on the brink of a daring, three-way gambit into the shadows, ready to gamble everything on the hope that wisdom, and unity, could outmatch fear and death itself.

Chapter Text

Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, sat behind her vast oak desk. Outside, a late-winter gale rattled the mullioned windows, rattling the wards she’d etched into the wood’s grain years ago. The glow from her lamp danced over floor-to-ceiling shelves of case files, some long forgotten, others far too alive.

Since that Halloween night when a desperate trio had revealed Peter Pettigrew alive, Amelia had pursued Sirius Black’s case in secret.

At first, she’d worked alone, poring over the decree that had sent Sirius to Azkaban: signed by Minister Bagnold, her predecessor Bartemius Crouch Sr. as head of the DMLE, and Albus Dumbledore as Supreme Mugwump. Not a single record of trial. Not a single note on witness testimony.

Realizing the Ministry’s depths of corruption, Amelia knew she couldn’t continue solo. She summoned two aurors she trusted implicitly.

She traced her quill over the Azkaban decree once more, heart tightening at the signature of Minister Bagnold. No hearing. No due process. Just a ministerial edict. A breath of cold air snaked under the door.

Dolores Umbridge swept in without invitation, robes as pink as a newborn’s cheek but tailored so tightly they seemed ready to burst. Her heels clicked against the marble as she approached.

“Madame Bones,” Umbridge began, voice saccharine, “Minister Fudge has named me Senior Undersecretary. I shall be overseeing the DMLE’s… activities from now on.” She spread her hands, palms up. “Do send me daily briefings on every investigation, especially any high-profile cases.”

Amelia rose, keeping her tone impeccably polite yet frosty as the windowsill frost. “I’m afraid that exceeds your remit, Senior Undersecretary. Ongoing investigations must proceed through the Office of Legal Enquiries. If you require updates, you may submit a request through proper channels.”

Umbridge’s smile flickered. She took a deliberate step forward, fingers brushing the desk’s carved runes. “I expect to be kept fully informed. Transparency is—”

“Is exactly what the Department of Justice provides,” Amelia interrupted, voice firm. “But I will not override judicial protocol at your behest.”

Colour crept into Umbridge’s cheeks. She narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be speaking with Minister Fudge about this.”

“By all means,” Amelia replied, inclining her head. “I’d welcome his guidance on the matter.”

Umbridge’s lips pressed into a thin line. Without another word, she spun on her heel and swept from the room. The click of her heels faded down the corridor.

For a heartbeat, Amelia stayed perfectly still, listening to the echo of fading heels. Then she glanced at the corner of the room, a tiny scrying mote fizzled out where its tether to the corridor wards had been severed.

Her heart thudded in her chest.

Amelia exhaled, the wards around her desk dimming as her tension ebbed. She sank into her chair, pressing a fingertip to her temple.

Moments later, a soft knock sounded. First in arrived Senior Auror Celeste Hargrove, her old schoolmate from Hogwarts, every bit as exacting and principled as Amelia herself. Celeste’s robes were immaculate, her posture rigid as a soldier at attention. Close behind came Junior Auror Declan Hawke, strolling in with that careless, rakish grin, peppermint from his post-Christmas sweets lingering on the air, his grey eyes sharp with calculation.

Amelia stood, the chill of Umbridge’s visit still clinging to her robes. She closed the door. Her desk lamp cast long shadows across her lined parchment. “Before we begin,” she said, voice calm but steel-edged. “I need absolute assurances. Recite the Auror’s Oath under the Silver Shield. Every vow. Every clause.”

Celeste’s tone rang clear, almost musical:
“I, Celeste Hargrove, swear to uphold the Statute of Secrecy, protect the innocent, and pursue justice without fear or favour […]”

Declan followed, every syllable precise:
“I, Declan Hawke, swear to uphold the Statute of Secrecy, protect the innocent, and pursue justice without fear or favour […]”

Satisfied, Amelia flicked her wand. A pale blue glow filled the room as she cast Secreto Arcanum and Imprimo Vinculum. The air snapped with cold. Then, distant beyond the door, there was a soft scrape, two deliberate steps and a hushed whisper that vanished as quickly as it came. The runes etched into her desk gutters shimmered, forming a silent barrier against scrying charms and unwelcome ears.

Amelia smoothed the dossier’s cover and slid it across the desk. “I’ve uncovered new evidence: Sirius Black never received a formal trial. The reappearance of Peter Pettigrew proves Sirius’s innocence beyond doubt. And yet, the Ministry’s internal affairs will happily bury this unless we build an unassailable case, so iron-clad that even Minister Fudge and Dolores Umbridge cannot sweep it under the carpet.”

Celeste’s jaw clenched. She studied Amelia’s calm face as if measuring its resolve. “This is… staggering,” she whispered. “All those years in Azkaban… on nothing more than a signed decree.”

Declan’s grin faltered, replaced by a rare seriousness. He unclasped the dossier and flicked it open; eyes narrowed at the margin notes. “Look at these signatures. Bagnold’s handwriting is uneven, almost like someone added lines later. Crouch’s notes refer to a ‘closed session’ that never appears in the records.”

Amelia nodded. “Precisely. My theory is that the previous Minister issued a back-channel order after a midnight meeting. Dumbledore may have approved a summary judgment under his Supreme Mugwump privileges, but no transcript exists.”

Celeste tapped her fingers on the desktop. “We’ll need sworn testimonies. Ministry clerks who handled the file, the wizard who escorted Sirius to the ministry holding cells… anyone who can attest to that ‘closed meeting.’”

Declan’s mind raced. He stood abruptly, pacing before the window. “I can cross-reference employee attendance logs with the apparition records. If someone apparated in and out at odd hours…”

Amelia raised a hand. “And Umbridge, now Senior Undersecretary, will no doubt try to intercept any paperwork. We proceed off the books. Once we secure these affidavits, we’ll have a case they cannot legally ignore.”

Celeste met Amelia’s gaze. “What about the witnesses’ safety? You know how Umbridge responds to dissent.”

“She won’t know until it’s too late,” Amelia replied. “I’ll cast additional protective wards around each statement. We move fast, interview by interview, document by document.”

Declan offered Celeste a half-teasing grin. “Don’t worry, Celes, your meticulous filing will keep us two steps ahead.”

Celeste allowed the faintest smile to soften her stern features. They exchanged a determined nod. Celeste brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll start with Ministry archives, Chief Registrar’s office tomorrow at dawn.”

Declan flashed that confident grin again. “And I’ll be in the Levitation Wing by noon, tracing apparition records. If I’m right, one name will surface more than once.”

Amelia allowed herself a brief smile. “Good. Keep every finding in a hidden compartment of the casebook. No Magical Eye, no photograph, just your notes and sworn statements.” She rose, hands clasped behind her back.

Celeste straightened her shoulders. “Understood.”

Declan tipped an imaginary hat. “We won’t let you down, boss.”

They bowed and exited, robes whispering down the corridor. Amelia watched the door close, then exhaled. The wards around her office dimmed. She unrolled a ledger of Azkaban’s financial transfers, quill in hand. “An end-of-year audit,” she murmured, determination settling like armour over her heart. “Time to unearth every secret these walls hold.”

***

Amelia stood on the snow-slick wooden dock, wind tugging at her robes like impatient hands. Each gust brought a sharp sting, laden with salt spray from the churning sea. Minister Fudge, his woollen scarf and bowler hat a bright slash of vivid green against the muted grey horizon, paced beside her with exaggerated impatience.

“Amelia, really,” he huffed, rubbing his gloved hands together, nose pink with cold. “You can’t expect me to sit in my office all day waiting for your report. My constituents will love seeing me strolling through Azkaban, shows I’m tough on crime.”

Amelia’s jaw tightened, her gaze remained fixed on the fortress’s jagged silhouette rising from the sea. Her breath hung in small clouds; she kept her tone even. “Minister, this is an end-of-year audit, not a photo-op. Your presence will only draw attention—and hinder the inspections.”

Fudge waved a mittened hand. “Nonsense. My name alongside yours on every front page, that’s good politics. Now let’s be off.” He strode toward the small ferry moored at the dock’s end.

She followed, boots crunching in fresh snow. In her mind, she replayed the late-night reports of suspicious activity, missing logs, odd Warden transfers. Fudge’s insistence made sense: he didn’t trust her to cover whatever was really going on within those walls.

On the ferry, the three of them—Amelia, Fudge, and the boatman—huddled beneath a battered tarpaulin. The wind moaned through the rigging. No Portkey, no Apparition, only this rickety skiff could traverse the dementor-patrolled waters. Fudge coughed theatrically at each wave that crashed over the gunwale.

Amelia forced a polite smile. “The audit begins the moment we step ashore. I intend to speak first with Warden Garrow, then Inspector Catesby, followed by the senior wardens in each wing.”

Behind them, two dementors drifted into view, hollow forms gliding just above the water. The boatman gripped his oar as though warding off a storm. Amelia’s heart tightened; she resisted the urge to conjure a Patronus.

Fudge draped a soggy cloak over his shoulders. “Or we could simply tour the main courtyard, shake hands with the guards, and call it a day. Efficiency, Amelia.”

She bristled but answered calmly, “Efficiency is admirable, Minister. But the fortress is expansive, three tiers of cells, each with its own registers and security measures. A superficial tour would defeat the audit’s purpose.” She let her voice linger on each word, knowing full well that by insisting on exhaustive scrutiny she would erode his patience until he begged off.

He huffed again, shoulders sagging. The ferry’s engine throbbed as it pressed forward. In the dim light, the fortress’s jagged walls loomed like a crown of black ice. A cluster of dementors hovered above the gatehouse, their tattered cloaks drifting in frozen air.

Fudge swallowed visibly. “Good heavens, it’s more imposing than I remember.” He coughed. “Well, I—shall accompany you for the first few corridors. After that, I have better uses for my time.”

Amelia nodded curtly. “As you wish, Minister. Follow me, please.”

They disembarked onto a snow-packed stone quay. Warden Garrow, in a heavy fur-lined coat, met them at the top of the gangway. He bowed stiffly. “Madame Bones, Minister Fudge, welcome. Shall we proceed?”

Amelia sketched a quick nod. Over Garrow’s shoulder, a line of low-security cells awaited, houses for debtors and first-time offenders. Each corridor smelled of damp stone and cold metal. Fudge trailed closely, eyes flicking from prison bars to wardens’ faces.

They moved in silence, Amelia ticking off registers, comparing roll-call logs to inmates’ files. In Block A, names matched. Fudge nodded once then yawned discreetly.

By the time they reached Block B, housing violent offenders, Fudge’s voice had grown impatient. “Why are you reading every inmate’s file aloud? A simple tally would suffice.”

Amelia closed her ledger, voice clipped. “Minister, my duty is to ensure every record aligns with physical custody. Belief in procedure is what keeps the Ministry accountable.”

He tapped his cane on the frost-rimmed floor. “Accountable… yes, yes. But I have Cabinet meetings this afternoon. If you need more time—”

“I need the full afternoon,” Amelia cut in. “I will inspect the deep-level wings, and then I’ll need your written comments. You’re more than welcome to remain.”

Fudge’s shoulders slumped. He glared at the towering walls as if they’d grown since he last saw them. “Very well. But this had better be quick.”

At last, they reached the spiral stair leading to the third, lowest level. A line of heavy iron doors marched down into darkness. Here the worst offenders were kept: convicted Death Eaters, mass-murderers, traitors and spies. Dementors drifted upstream, their presence pressing cold dread into every breath.

Amelia watched Fudge’s face pale. He took a step back. “I—think I’ve seen enough.” His voice quivered just slightly.

She offered a semblance of sympathy. “Minister, you may return to the mainland. I will report my findings by tonight.”

He straightened his coat, avoiding her gaze. “Good day, Amelia.” With that, he turned on his heel and climbed the steps, heading toward the dock.

She waited until his retreating figure vanished into the swirl of snow. Her shoulders sagged with relief, her pulse slowing to a steady rhythm. Amelia allowed herself a small, triumphant smile.

The last of Fudge’s entourage scurried away, leaving her alone before the forbidding iron door. She angled her gaze to the frost-rimmed steel surface and caught her own reflection, pale cheeks, determined eyes, ghosted across the cold metal. In that fleeting image, she steeled herself for what lay beyond.

Amelia paused before the iron-grated door, heart pounding against her ribs like a frantic drum. The corridor beyond was lit by flickering torches, their sputtering flames casting long shadows across the stone floor. She glanced down at the heavy key in her gloved hand, then inhaled the dank, metallic scent of Azkaban’s deepest wing before stepping inside.

Sirius sat huddled on the straw-strewn floor, back against the cold wall. His once-handsome features were gaunt, eyes rimmed with shadow. At first, she thought he was asleep, broken by years of solitude. Then his head snapped up, and she saw that wild spark of defiance.

“Sirius Black,” she began softly, keeping her voice steady so as not to startle him. “I’m Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I’m here because there’s no record of your trial, no transcript, no witness statements. I want to know why.”

He blinked, as though trying to clear his mind of a long nightmare. “No record? Of course there’s no record. There was no trial. They bundled me off to Azkaban less than twenty-four hours after my arrest. I never saw a judge, never heard a single argument in my defense.” His voice cracked. “No one’s visited me since.”

Amelia crouched just outside the cell, wand kept low. “Were you refused legal representation? And no family or friends have come to see you?”

He stared at her as if the questions themselves hurt. “Legal representation?” he spat. “No. I had no one. No family. What’s left of my family would sooner see me dead than hear I'm alive. And friends…” He paused, head down. From somewhere nearby rose a harsh, triumphant cackle, Bellatrix Lestrange’s laughter echoing like broken glass. Sirius flinched. “The last friend I thought I had… never came. He must think I’m a traitor. Even Dumbledore… he never came.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “I know why.” She stepped closer, voice urgent. “I’ve uncovered evidence that Peter Pettigrew is alive. He’s in secret custody, hidden away until we can expose the truth. You were framed.”

At that revelation, Sirius’s pale face lost every trace of colour. He lurched to his feet, claws of desperation gripping the bars. “I—never was the Secret Keeper! We switched! Peter was meant to keep the secret in my place; he betrayed them all. I swear it was him, not me!”

Amelia folded her arms. “Then explain why you were caught at the crime scene, raving that you’d killed them.”

His shoulders slumped, defeat settling into hollow eyes. “Because… I suggested the switch. I told them to use Peter, explained how to fool Voldemort. It felt like I killed them myself. It’s my fault, they’re dead because of me.” His voice wavered, despair pooling in the cell’s cold stone.

Amelia’s heart tightened. She knelt beside the bars, tone kinder now. “You’re luckier than you know. There’s at least one person who believes in you—Harry Potter. He insisted on reopening your case. He begged for your release.”

At the name, Sirius’s eyes glittered, tears at the brink. His knees buckled as a decade of grief and regret poured out. “Harry…” His voice broke into sobs. “I failed him. I should’ve stayed, protected him, instead of chasing Peter. How can he forgive me...”

Amelia placed a hand against the iron, just above his. “You’re not alone anymore. I swear, Sirius Black, I will uncover every lie, every forged signature, every hidden transcript. I will bring light to this injustice. You will be free. And you will be reunited with Harry.”

He stared at her, hope and pain warring in his eyes. A single dementor drifted past the doorway, its presence washing the torchlight into darkness, but Amelia raised her wand without hesitation. A flick of her wrist, a word softly spoken, and warmth bloomed around them.

Amelia let the warmth of her Patronus fade, the glow ebbing until the bars were cold steel once more. She placed a firm hand just above where Sirius’s fingers curled around the iron.

“I wish I could say this ends tonight,” she murmured, voice low. “But the Ministry is too fractured, too quick to bury any scandal that makes them look weak. If we free you now, they’ll scatter the evidence before we can rally support. We need time—months, not days—to secure Pettigrew’s testimony, recover the missing logs, and stitch together an unbreakable case. Only then can we force a proper trial, one they can’t derail.”

Sirius watched the torchlight dance across her determined face. He drew a slow breath, shoulders sagging as the weight of her words settled in. After a moment, he forced a half-smile.

“Months,” he repeated softly. “After ten years in this place, what are a few more months? A handful of nights compared to a decade. For Harry, I’ll wait.” His voice cracked on the last word. He pressed a fist against the bars, knuckles whitening.

Amelia’s eyes glimmered with both relief and sorrow. She gave him a small, resolute nod.

“Stay strong, then,” Amelia whispered. The torchlight caught in her eyes, bright and unyielding. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

With that, she turned and walked away, the echo of her footsteps mingling with the distant rasp of dementors’ wings. Behind her, Sirius sank back against the wall, chin pressed to his chest… and endured.

***

Amelia gripped the rail of the ferry, salt spray in her face, the wind clawing at her robes. Azkaban’s black ramparts receded into the grey swirl behind her. She forced her gaze outward, but her thoughts were already back in that secret holding cell beneath the Ministry, so well hidden that not even the Minister knew it existed.

Weeks earlier, she had stepped into a narrow corridor lit by torches, the air thick with damp and mildew. At the end, a rune-carved door opened on Peter Pettigrew, crouched on a splintered bench like a trapped animal. In the flickering light, his human form looked grotesque: shrunken shoulders, stained teeth bared in a silent snarl, whiskers bristling at his lips. For the briefest instant, Amelia saw not the rat he’d been but the boy who once giggled in Gryffindor dormitories. Her chest tightened with something that felt dangerously like pity. She forced it down and reminded herself why she was there.

“I’m Amelia Bones,” she said, voice flat. “Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I’m here to interrogate you under Veritaserum.” Pettigrew’s eyes widened; he scrambled backward until his spine hit cold stone. Amelia hesitated—just long enough to swallow her empathy—then drew forth a small vial containing three shimmering drops of clear potion.

“Please—no,” he whimpered. “I’m innocent. I didn’t—”

Her heart stung at the desperation in his voice, but she held up the vial. “Then start by explaining why you hid as a rat for a decade if you had nothing to fear.” Her tone brooked no evasion.

He bolted to his knees, scraping the floor with one fingernail. “I—I was terrified! Sirius Black swore he’d kill me.”

Amelia’s lip curled. She remembered the boy Sirius Black had been. Now she saw the ache of betrayal etched in every line of Pettigrew’s confession. “He hasn’t set foot outside of Azkaban in ten years. He couldn’t harm a hair on your head.”

He trembled, voice rising. “He has friends—Death Eaters still at large! They’d help him. They’d tear me apart—”

“Enough.” Amelia uncapped the vial, three drops glinting in the lantern light before she forced them onto his tongue. His head lolled back; mouth opened as the potion chased every secret from his mind.

She watched his pupils dilate; the trance settles over his face. “Who was the Potters’ Secret Keeper? Tell me everything that happened.” she asked, voice hushed.

He spoke in a monotone, as if reciting a script. “I was. I subtly manipulated Sirius to suggest the switch. In his arrogance, he thought it his own brilliant idea. By then… I was already a Death Eater.” Amelia felt a cold note of triumph in his admission, and revulsion.

Her eyes flicked to the sleeve of his threadbare robe, then she lifted it, revealing the bruised swirl of the Dark Mark coiled around his forearm. Her dicta-quill scribbled every word.

He continued, recounting how he’d exulted when Lily and James trusted him, how he’d rushed to the Dark Lord certain of glory, how his hopes dissolved into horror when an infant thwarted the curse. Amelia’s throat tightened at the cruelty of his ambition. She could almost taste his arrogance, and his fear.

His words tumbled on: how he’d run for three days and nights through London’s back alleys, heart pounding. How he’d been cornered by Sirius in that narrow street, how, in panic, he’d screamed that Black betrayed Lily and James, blew up the street, then severed his finger, transformed into rat and fled.

“I was found by young Percy Weasley, shivering in the meadow,” he droned. “He took me home as a pet, his family pitied me. I stayed, hoping to learn my master’s fate… and evade any vengeful hand.”

When the Veritaserum’s grip loosened, Pettigrew snapped back to his whimpering self. He collapsed; forehead pressed to the straw. “Mercy, Madame Bones—mercy…”

Amelia stepped back, disgust clear in her posture. “Mercy?” she echoed. “No. You’ll get exactly what you deserve. A life sentence in Azkaban, or the Dementor’s Kiss if I have my say. The wards around this cell will see to it that you neither flee nor end it yourself.”

She turned on her heel and strode from the cell, leaving Pettigrew’s pitiful cries echoing off the dank stone.

A sudden gust lifted the ferry’s mist, and Amelia blinked back into the here and now. The sea’s roar replaced the dripping silence of the cell. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the steady beat of determination.

Pettigrew’s confession, etched in her quill’s ink and sealed by truth potion, would clear Sirius Black’s name. Once the Ministry’s archives were updated, official orders would follow, and the man wronged for a decade would step free. But first, she had to deliver this confession to the Wizengamot, ensure every word was recorded, every witness called.

Amelia lifted her chin against the wind. Justice was rarely swift, but it was inevitable. Ahead lay calm seas to the mainland, and, she prayed, calm skies for Sirius Black’s release. Until then, she would carry the weight of this memory, as undeniable as Veritaserum itself.

***

Pale morning light filtered through the soaring windows of the Ministry’s Grand Foyer as Celeste and Declan slipped in through a seldom-used service door. The corridors beyond thrummed with quills scratching parchment and distant laughter, yet here the bustle felt muted, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Every footstep echoed against marble tiles polished by decades of hurried business. Celeste’s heart hammered like a mandrake in distress.

They paused before a pair of stone doors covered in runes, layers upon layers of enchantments, each traceable to a different ministerial administration. Celeste traced a curved glyph, older than her great-grandmother, then another etched in sharper relief by someone who’d served just last year. “This isn’t just Bagnold’s work,” she murmured. “It’s centuries of ministers burying their secrets beneath each other’s wards.”

Declan offered a tight smile, his breath visible in the chill that rose from the threshold. “Let’s peel it back.” Wand at the ready, Celeste whispered, “Repello Arcanum.” Warmth flowed from her wand tip, meeting the wards in a silent struggle. The runes flickered, stuttered, then winked out like dying stars. A low, reluctant groan of stone signalled the doors unlocking.

The oak panels creaked open to reveal rows of ebony cabinets standing in perfect alignment, their polished surfaces mirroring the lantern’s dance. Centuries of dust lay undisturbed in the corners, mingled with the faint, sweet sourness of aged parchment. Declan held the lantern aloft, its light slicing through the gloom, illuminating brass plaques that carried names and dates like curses: NOBBY LEACH, 1962–1968; HECTOR FAWLEY, 1925–1939; and others whose legacies had long since faded into whispers.

Celeste’s fingers trembled as she moved down the aisle. “Here,” Declan whispered, pausing before a cabinet stamped “MILLICENT BAGNOLD, 1980–1990.” With a practiced flick, he cracked the glass seal, and it slid away without sound. Inside lay dozens of unsigned memos, but what caught Celeste’s eye was a crimson-ribbon bundle stamped “DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT – Confidential.”

A sudden draft fluttered the ribbon’s edge, and Celeste’s breath caught. She untied it with careful patience and drew out a brittle parchment. “S. Black III interrogation, closed session,” she read, voice low with awe and revulsion. Declan leaned closer. “Subject wept uncontrollably, insisting ‘I killed Lily and James Potter.’ No Veritaserum used. Trial avoided to prevent public uproar. Sentence to stand.”

Celeste’s lips parted in a silent gasp. “They punished him for trauma.” She slid the sheets into her satchel, arms burning to keep them from fluttering free. Declan swept the lantern across the shelves. “Look at this,” he said, extracting a cracked leather folio bound in faded ribbon. “Millicent Bagnold’s notes on the Wizengamot’s misdeeds. Every file covers up the last scandal.”

A sharp noise bounced off the marble, boots approaching, deliberate and heavy. Celeste pressed herself against the nearest cabinet, nails grazing its lacquered edge. Declan ducked behind a stack of Fudge’s correspondence, heart thundering so loudly Celeste thought the walls would hear. The air felt charged, as though the runes themselves were warning of imminent discovery.

Auror Dawlish appeared at the aisle’s entrance, lantern held high, cloak brushing the floor. His sharp gaze swept left, then right, lips twisting in mild irritation. Celeste’s voice was a breath. “Nox Disillusio.” Both wands flicked. Their robes blurred and vanished into thin air, silhouettes dissolving into shadows. Dawlish sniffed, frowning. “Must be drafty corridors,” he muttered, stepping deeper into the vault without noticing a thing.

Once his footsteps retreated, Celeste risked a glance. Declan exhaled, slumping against the cabinet. “That was too close.” She reappeared with a soft pop and began reactivating the glass and wards with a gentle flick, no trace the doors had ever been open. The runes glowed back to life, sealing their secret in shifting bands of light.

Outside, the corridor seemed impossibly bright. They moved as one, shoulders brushing, each footstep a small victory. Celeste’s satchel felt impossibly heavy with centuries of deception. Declan offered her a shaky grin. “When Amelia sees this… we’ll bring down a whole empire of lies.”

Celeste let the words settle as they melted back into the current of midday ministry traffic. Behind them, the vault stood silent once more, its secrets stolen into the light at last.

***

It was the second week of spring, and the Ministry’s corridors buzzed with new energy, breezes drifting through open windows, desks piled high with end-of-term reports, and the faint scent of hyacinths carried on drafts. But behind the cheerful clatter, Dolores Umbridge prowled her networks like a hunting cat. In her rose-tinted office she leaned over a polished desk, studying a stack of ragged notes brought in by her most trusted informants.

“They vanish before dawn,” a hooked-nosed clerk whispered, voice low. “Miss Hargrove and Mr. Hawke slipping past the Auror Office, carrying lanterns and satchels, no official warrant in hand.”

Another, an under-sized witch with paint-pink polish on her nails, tapped her quill against a blotter. “I saw them in the restricted wing, near the old vault corridor. They’ve been working in secret for days, but I couldn’t get close enough to see what they’re after.”

Umbridge’s lips curved into a smile that never reached her eyes. Patterns were emerging: Celeste’s late-night transits, Declan’s hush-hush meetings with archivists, the momentary hush that fell over the DMLE offices whenever they passed. None of her minions had seen a single parchment or heard so much as a murmured incantation, just footprints in the dust and whispers in the dark.

She rose and arranged her skirts before a long, bevelled mirror. “Perfect,” she murmured. “If I cannot prove their crime, I will discredit their champion.” Amelia Bones had grown too respected, too beloved by the staff. By attacking her most loyal protégé, Umbridge would force Amelia onto the defensive, and buy herself all the time she needed.

With deliberate grace, Umbridge summoned her chief clerk. “Hear this through the grapevine,” she instructed, voice honey-smooth. “Miss Hargrove has been seen rifling through files that do not concern her. Unofficial investigations risk exposing sensitive information and embarrassing the Minister. Spread the word that she’s overstepping her authority, reckless, presumptuous, a liability. And quietly remind everyone that her mentor, Amelia Bones, is the one who trained such undisciplined operatives.”

Dolores Umbridge wasted no time. Draped in her signature rose-pink cardigan, she glided into the Minister’s private office with a titter of feigned concern. “Minister,” she purred in her sweetest, most faux-concerned drawl, “I’m alarmed by these whispers of unauthorized investigations. Amelia prides herself on procedure, yes but her insistence on exhaustive reviews risks paralyzing our work with red tape.” With each clipped phrase, she painted Amelia as inflexible and Celeste as reckless. The Minister, already uneasy, nodded and signed an order for a surprise inspection of Celeste’s quarters.

Before noon, Aurors swept through Celeste’s rooms like a gale. Trunks were pried open, parchments strewn across the bed, and every drawer was forced. Celeste stood by the hearth, heart thundering, as a clerk rifled her private notebooks. Even the faintest whiff of misfiled parchment might land her before the Office of Legal Enquiries. Every ritual charm she’d ever learned couldn’t keep them from dragging her name through the mud.

When news of the raid reached Amelia, she was in her study, reviewing procedural statutes. She stormed down the corridor, quill still tucked behind her ear, fury sharpening her stride. The charge was baseless, a stunt to stall their real work, but formal procedure bound them nonetheless. Until the inquiry concluded, neither she nor Celeste could cross a single threshold in pursuit of new leads. The Sirius Black investigation would have to wait.

A pale spring sun slipped through high windows as Amelia Bones settled behind her massive desk in the DMLE library, the hush of parchment and polished wood surrounding her. Before her lay four bound volumes, each brimming with affidavits, ministerial approvals, and precise citations of Articles 47 and 52. Across from her, Declan Hawke hovered like a guardian spirit, his lantern, symbol of restless nights, resting unlit at his side.

Amelia lifted her quill and tapped the corner of the first volume. “This,” she said softly, “is what we file now.”

Together they had summoned Archivist Lydia Greengrass, clerk Marten Whitaker, and groundskeeper Orlo Finch. Lydia’s voice rang clear on the page: “Ms. Hargrove accessed only vault indexes approved in writing by Minister Fudge.” Whitaker swore to Celeste’s scrupulous record-keeping, and Finch confirmed her midnight wanderings were for dimly lit repairs, not clandestine searches. Each testimony read like a blow struck at Umbridge’s thin case.

By midday, the volumes were delivered to the Office of Legal Enquiries on crimson-lined trolleys. Word travelled quickly: “By noon, Amelia Bones files for injunction.” Clusters of aurors and clerks exchanged murmured astonishment in corridors. Whispers of solidarity darted through the ranks, precise, determined, impossible to ignore.

When Amelia glided into the chamber, robes immaculate and wand concealed beneath her sleeve, Umbridge sat poised behind the clerk’s desk, pink cardigan gleaming, lips pressed into a tight smile. Two senior examiners hovered nearby, quills at the ready.

Amelia laid the volumes before them with deliberate calm. “Esteemed examiners,” she began, voice measured, each syllable echoing off tallow-scented walls, “I present sworn affidavits from three senior Ministry officers, written approvals for every document Ms. Hargrove accessed, and a petition under Article 52, Section A, requesting suspension of all searches pending formal charges. Should no specific allegations arrive in writing by end of business, I will escalate this matter to the Wizengamot for administrative abuse.”

A silence fell, brittle as frost. Umbridge’s blush-pink cheeks twitched, but she made no move. The clerk attempted to speak, began plucking a ledger, but Amelia raised a single finger.

“Article 47 requires that any inquiry define its scope before searches may proceed. Article 52 forbids further inspections without sworn testimony of improper conduct. My auror’s rights—and the Ministry’s integrity—are at stake.”

The examiners exchanged solemn glances. One leaned forward, voice low: “Madam Bones, your motion is…unprecedented.”

“Unprecedented, perhaps,” Amelia admitted with a courteous nod, “but not unjustified.” Her calm confidence filled the chamber, unsettling Umbridge’s delicate poise.

After what felt like an eternity, the lead examiner tapped his desk. “In light of these documents, the Office rules that all searches of Ms. Hargrove’s personal effects be suspended until formal, detailed charges are submitted.”

Relief blossomed in Celeste’s eyes, soft and bright as dawn. Amelia allowed herself the smallest, triumphant smile. Umbridge’s lips flattened, wounded privilege flickering in her glare.

Outside, Celeste exhaled a breath she hardly knew she’d been holding. “You did it,” she whispered, voice tremulous.

Amelia placed a firm hand on her protégé’s shoulder. “Procedure is our shield,” she said. “Now we reclaim our time.”

Word of the ruling rippled through DMLE offices like a surfacing tide. Aurors paused in doorways, clerks leaned out of cubicles, all keenly aware that the balance of power had shifted. Amelia’s reputation soared; her staff moved with new certainty.

In her rose-tinted office, Umbridge stared at the court ruling parchment, her carefully woven web of insinuations stripped away by ink and statute. Anger bloomed beneath her polished exterior. She would have her revenge, but for now, the corridors hummed with Amelia’s victory.

That evening, Amelia and Celeste walked the Ministry’s marble halls beneath burgeoning wisteria, the air alive with possibility. The Sirius Black inquiry had been stalled but never silenced. With bureaucracy bent in their favour, they would resume their pursuit, this time, on unassailable ground.

The spring breeze carried the promise of new evidence, and Celeste tucked her wand under her arm, determination alight in her chest. Amelia matched her stride, unwavering. Together, they stepped into the next chapter of their fight, procedure sharpened into power, and justice closer than ever.

***

Minister Fudge stormed into the vaulted chamber of the Wizengamot before the first councillor had settled, his face ruddy with indignation. “Madam Bones,” he barked, voice echoing off the marble pillars, “explain to me—at once—why you have convened the entire Wizengamot without so much as a by-your-leave to the Minister’s office!”

Amelia Bones rose from her gallery seat, calm as dawn’s first light. “Minister, this session is to open the long-overdue trial of Sirius Black.”

A snort of disdain rose from Dolores Umbridge at his side, each rose-pink fold of her cardigan trembling. “Preposterous,” she purred. “He was convicted ten years ago. If you’re in need of amusement, Amelia, a vacation might suffice.”

Fudge’s glare snapped to her. “A trial? We condemned him! He served a decade in Azkaban!”

Amelia inclined her head toward Dumbledore, who stood at the podium, his silver beard a pale streak in the torchlight. “Dumbledore, would you care to confirm that Sirius Black received no formal trial?”

Dumbledore’s hooded eyes met her own. For a heartbeat he hesitated, then spoke with surprising frankness, voice low and steady: “Indeed, there was no trial. Only a ministerial edict and a closed session, no witnesses, no defense.”

Fudge’s face contorted. “Absurd! We can’t—”

Dumbledore tapped his gavel twice, and the chamber fell silent. “Order,” he intoned. “The court is now open. The accusation chair will receive Mr. Sirius Black.”

From the antechamber they brought him: gaunt, pale, shoulders slumped, freed from Azkaban yet bound still by rumour and fear. He was seated in the Accusation Chair, enchanted chains springing to life, coiling around his wrists and ankles in a cold clasp. Gasps fluttered through the audience. Sirius lifted a hand, rubbing raw wrists where shackles had dug into flesh.

Dumbledore tapped his gavel again. “This trial is convened on the charge that no just sentence may stand without due process. We begin with testimony.”

When Peter Pettigrew was ushered in, robes rumpled and eyes frantic, the chamber erupted into outraged whispers. “He’s alive!” “Dead years ago!” Councillors craned necks, quills trembling as Pettigrew was ushered into a small side-pen. Amelia stepped forward, voice resonant: “I present my personal transcript of Mr. Pettigrew’s interrogation under Veritaserum.” She laid a thick sheaf of parchment on the table. “Alternatively, I invite him to retake the potion before this assembly, so his testimony may be heard without question.”

Murmurs rose from the Dark Families and former Death Eaters arrayed in the back rows. Lucius Malfoy, clad in plum Wizengamot robes, lifted his chin and scoffed, “We may as well accept the written report.” Low voices rippled through the benches, warning that forcing Pettigrew under Veritaserum again could coax fresh, damning secrets—secrets certain to pull half their houses into ruin.

Pettigrew raised a shaking hand, voice quavering to fill the hush: “I swear—no, I implore this court—I am innocent of everything! I served as James Potter’s Secret Keeper under duress. I never meant to—”

Dumbledore’s gavel fell three times in sharp succession, cutting through Pettigrew’s plea. “The court finds the Veritaserum testimony sufficient to establish truth in this matter. Mr. Pettigrew will stand separate trial for his role in the deaths of the Potters and thirteen Muggles at a later date.”

A ripple of approval rolled through those who had wanted to see Pettigrew held fully accountable. Amelia turned to Dumbledore with a grateful nod, then addressed the bench: “I now call Registrar Thornberry and Archivist Moreland to testify that no formal trial was ever convened for Sirius Black. In addition, I present the ministerial decree, bearing the signatures of Millicent Bagnold, Bartemius Crouch Sr., and Albus Dumbledore, alongside the closed-session report signed only by Bagnold and Crouch.”

Amid rustling robes, two witnesses stepped forward. Registrar Thornberry, spectacles glinting, swore she had stamped every record in sight, none bore any hearing transcript. Archivist Moreland confirmed that footnotes had vanished under deep-file wards, never declassified.

Anticipating any argument that Sirius Black’s reputation alone justified summary judgment, Amelia lifted her hand for silence.

“Before we summon Mr. Crouch Sr., the court will hear further testimony to prove not only the absence of due process, but the true character of the man we condemned and the impossibility of a fair hearing in under a day.”

From the rear benches stepped Magister Helena Fairweather, childhood friend of Lily Potter. Her tone was resolute as she spoke. “Sirius Black was more than a companion to the Potters, he was family. Every whisper of danger sent him rushing to their side. He loved James and Lily as fiercely as a brother.” She paused, voice catching. “To see him torn away from them, dragged before this body without a word of defense. It wounds me still.”

Next, Auror Gideon Thorne approached, cloak dusted with the grit of the chase. “On the night of August 3rd,” he began, “my squad arrested Mr. Black outside a back alley in London, its walls shattered and debris still smouldering from a recent explosion. He was gaunt, unarmed, trembling with shock. He was frantic, screaming that it was all his fault, that he’d killed them, his voice ragged with self-reproach. He was a broken man who had already lost everything.”

Amelia inclined her head, and a Ministry clerk, Scribe Owen Trevelyan, collected parchments from a small chest. “These are the signed transfer logs,” he announced, sliding the papers across the table. “Sirius Black was booked at the Ministry holding cell that very night, then despatched to Azkaban by dawn, less than twenty-four hours from arrest to incarceration, with no entry for a judicial proceeding.” He tapped the final line. “No judge’s signature. No hearing date. No defense counsel.”

A hush fell over the chamber as councillors leaned forward, quills poised. Amelia let the silence settle for a heartbeat, then addressed Dumbledore. “Now that we have laid bare his steadfast loyalty, his shattered state at capture, and the impossibility of a trial in such haste, I call the closed-session records to the stand—and the man who sanctioned them.”

Amelia raised a hand to still the murmurs.
“You may notice the absence of former Minister Bagnold. She is currently abroad, engaged in urgent peace talks with the Goblin Council at Gringotts, and her failing health precludes safe travel. She has, however, submitted a sworn written statement acknowledging that she signed this decree under the understanding that due process would follow. That statement is entered into the record.”

A clerk stepped forward and placed a sealed parchment on the table, its wax seal already cracked. Amelia allowed a brief pause, letting the weight of Bagnold’s written admission settle over the chamber.

With measured calm, she raised her hand toward the chamber doors.
“Admit Bartemius Crouch Sr.”

At Amelia’s call, the chamber doors opened for Crouch Sr., cane in hand, shoulders stiff. He acknowledged the decree. “I presided over that closed session,” he said, voice thick with regret or pride, no one could tell. “At the time, public safety demanded swift action. The Black family’s reputation was stained with Dark magic. We had no reason to believe due process essential when evidence seemed so plain.”

Amelia stepped forward, tone measured but firm. “As former head of the DMLE, you know hearsay and prejudice cannot substitute for a trial. You sanctioned imprisonment without a hearing while granting your own son judicial review. How can that be just?”

Crouch’s jaw tightened. “Everyone believed him guilty. I saved the Ministry time and resources. A trial would have been a spectacle, delaying justice for victims’ families.”

Dumbledore rose again, wand-tip aglow with soft blue light. “Mr. Crouch, even amid crisis, the law must uphold fairness. You swore to protect every citizen, yet one man’s rights were denied.”

Crouch’s shoulders slumped. “Perhaps… it no longer matters.” His admission hung in the air as quiet councillors exchanged glances. He would face inquiry for his conduct—a demotion loomed, whispers said.

Amelia turned to Dumbledore. “And you, as Supreme Mugwump, will you recount your role?”

Dumbledore’s gaze dropped. “I signed custody papers under the assumption of due process to follow. I did not know no trial would occur. I failed in my duty to ensure justice.”

A hush washed over the room. Even Umbridge paled at his candour. Dumbledore’s hand shook as he raised his voice: “I regret that lapse. Let no power, executive or legislative, exceed the law’s mandate.”

Amelia bowed her head. “Finally, I extend the floor to Mr. Sirius Black to speak on his own behalf.” She gestured toward Sirius in the chair.

Fudge leaned forward, sneering. “You heard him once! He raved he killed Lily and James Potter. Admit your guilt, Mr. Black, and spare us this charade.”

Umbridge’s eyes gleamed. “Confess now, and perhaps the court will show mercy.”

Sirius lifted his chin. His voice rang clear, though faint: “I never saw a trial. I was condemned on rumour and fear. I did not betray my friends. I loved Lily and James.”

Shouts broke out among Fudge’s supporters, until Amelia raised her hand. “The court will now hear from Dr. Winifred Hawthorn, Chief Mental Specialist at St. Mungo’s, on grief, trauma, and the unreliability of words spoken under duress.”

The small figure of Dr. Hawthorn approached, voice soft yet authoritative. She described how panic and guilt warp memory, how the mind can conjure false confessions in shock. “Without a calm mind, words bear little weight. Let verifiable evidence, not guilt-ridden speech, guide us.”

Fudge’s face flushed; Umbridge huffed but could find no retort. Amelia called for a vote. Mute councillors dipped quills; robes rustled as parchments passed.

Dumbledore tapped his gavel once more. “The verdict is in. Sirius Black is cleared of all charges, to receive compensation for wrongful imprisonment, and remanded to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries for both physical and psychological rehabilitation.”

A cheer, or as close as the solemn chamber could produce, erupted. Chains of enchantment faded from the Accusation Chair. Sirius stood unshackled, tears glinting in his eyes as he stepped forward, supported by Amelia. Photographers’ lamps flared, capturing the moment hope was restored.

Even as the Wizengamot’s marble halls settled into stunned quiet, a rotary press in a cramped Charing Cross Road printshop roared to life. Molten lead type hammered against delicate paper: TRUTH FLOWS AT WIZENGAMOT—BLACK EXONERATED. Ink-smudged hands loaded broadsheets into weathered crates bound for every corner of the wizarding world. Dawn was barely a pale glow on the horizon when an owl-keeper in Diagon Alley, perched on a narrow ledge, began fastening bundles of the fresh Prophet to sleek tawny birds. Feathers ruffled in anticipation, and one by one they launched into the awakening sky, each wingbeat carrying hope on silent currents.

Inside the antechamber, white-robed healers wove through the dispersing crowd toward Sirius Black. His shoulders were hollowed by years in Azkaban; his hand pressed to the wooden armrest that had once bitten into flesh. A healer draped a soft cloak across his trembling frame while another eased him onto a waiting litter. Photographers’ flashes caught the first true sparkle in his eyes, relief, disbelief, the fragile bloom of freedom lighting up a haunted gaze.

Moments later, Amelia Bones stepped into a floo-powder circle beneath the Ministry’s towering hearth. A swirl of emerald sparks carried her across London to the hushed tile corridors of St. Mungo’s. Her mind raced through ward assignments, specialist elixirs, and the delicate choreography of healing mind and body. She hurried past silent doors to the recovery wing, where healers had already settled Sirius onto a narrow cot. The air was thick with the scent of restorative broth; a pewter jug steamed at the foot of the bed.

Sirius’s lashes fluttered open as Amelia approached. His eyes met hers, gratitude and cautious wonder mingling in the flicker of torchlight. In that moment, the weight of injustice lifted, and a new day of healing began.

Chapter Text

Morning light filtered through the enchanted windows of the Great Hall, gilding every carved table leg and turning the long-winged banners into molten gold. Breakfast chatter hummed like a distant spell until, without warning, the air thundered with the flutter of hundreds of wings. An army of owls—barn, tawny, screech, and snowy—spiralled down from the rafters, talons clutching scrolls emblazoned with the Daily Prophet’s logo. Parchments cascaded onto every table in a flurry of feathers and gasps, sending goblets rattling and candles flickering.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron froze mid-reach for toast, eyes wide as parchment unrolled itself before them. Hermione’s quill hovered above her essay, Ron’s juice trembled in his fist, and Harry felt his heart hitch in his chest. Whispers snapped through the tables like flaming curses: “Daily Prophet Special Edition!” “What’s happened?” “Is it… could it be?”

At the Gryffindor table, unfolding the scroll with trembling fingers, Hermione cleared her throat and read aloud:

SPECIAL BREAKFAST EDITION – The Daily Prophet
By RITA SKEETER, Senior Columnist

My dearest gossip-hounds, prepare to clutch your tea and possibly your nearest ceramic gnome because yesterday’s explosive Wizengamot ruling has splintered the very foundations of Magical justice! In what can only be described as the Trial of the Century, Sirius Black, once reviled far and wide as the Deceiver of the Potters, was declared INNOCENT by a unanimous decree, sending shockwaves through every corridor from Diagon Alley to the darkest cells of Azkaban.

Hermione paused, voice quivering. A flicker of uncertainty danced in her gaze as a Slytherin prefect’s smirk caught her eye. Across the Hall, a Hufflepuff third year dropped his cup in surprise, and a Ravenclaw boy whispered, “I never thought I’d see this day.” Professor McGonagall’s stern features softened, and even Snape’s shadowed glare betrayed surprise. Ron’s usual bravado softened into quiet pride; he mouthed, “It’s finally happening.”

Hermione steadied her quill and continued reading:

Yesterday, at the heart of the Wizengamot’s marble chambers, ten years of anguish and unanswered questions were swept away with four simple words: “Sirius Black, Not Guilty.” Behind closed doors, secret confessions were unveiled, damning records emerged from hidden archives, and high-ranking officials, once thought untouchable, offered eyebrow-raising admissions. The man the Wizarding world condemned has at last walked free.

A ripple of astonished gasps raced through the tables. A fifth year murmured, “Not Guilty?” as if tasting the words for the first time. Percy’s hand flew to his mouth. A Ravenclaw prefect leaned forward, quill poised: “That’s… unprecedented.” From the Slytherin table, Pansy Parkinson scoffed, but her eyes betrayed fascination. A faint tremor shivered through the enchanted windowpanes.

Hermione inhaled deeply and read on:

Under the unforgiving gaze of Veritaserum, Peter Pettigrew, so long thought dead, quivered as he confessed to a trembling court that he alone betrayed Lily and James Potter. “I manipulated events so Black would take the fall,” he admitted, voice cracking like ice. No longer can this rat-faced coward hide behind shadows: every forged statement, every silenced witness, every lie he spun has been laid bare for all to see.

For more on Pettigrew’s veritaserum testimony, dear reader, see page 5.

A collective shudder ran through the students. Neville gripped Harry’s arm so tight his fingers whitened. “I can’t believe he lived with that guilt,” he whispered. Professor Flitwick exhaled a soft, sorrowful sigh, the scent of burnt toast mingling with candle smoke.

Hermione cleared her throat once more and read on:

Yet the greatest scandal of all falls squarely at the feet of Bartemius Crouch Sr., former Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. How did one man’s gut instinct become the lynchpin of a decade-long miscarriage of justice? No witness sworn, no testimony transcribed, no formal hearing convened—just a sealed decree condemning an innocent soul.

 For more on Crouch Sr.’s dereliction of duty, dear reader, see page 7.

From the back, a Slytherin boy muttered, “Typical Ministry mess-up.” The Gryffindor prefect at the end of the table leaned in, voice low: “Headlines won’t restore the lost years.” At the Gryffindor table, Ron slammed a fist down, rattling his knife against the plate. Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line of outrage.

Hermione’s voice gained urgency as she continued:

Where, one must ask, was former Minister Millicent Bagnold while an innocent wizard languished behind iron bars? Rumour has it she was “conveniently abroad,” leaving the fateful seal buried beneath layers of secret wards. Now, current Minister Cornelius Fudge strides into the light, chest puffed in self-congratulation, proclaiming, “My administration has righted the wrongs of the previous!”

A chorus of sceptical murmurs rose. A Hufflepuff girl exchanged a look with a Ravenclaw prefect: “Righted them? We’ll see.” McGonagall tapped her table thoughtfully, jaw clenched.

Hermione inhaled and pressed on:

Pointed Question for You, Dear Reader: When a clandestine edict can condemn an innocent for ten years, can we truly trust the Ministry to guard our liberties? Will freshly inked statutes prevent such cover-ups, or merely paper them over for another generation of scapegoats? Or is the only safeguard the vigilance of every witch and wizard with the courage to speak out?

Silence. In the High Table gallery, Professors Binns and Trelawney exchanged a rare look of agreement.

Hermione’s tone brightened as she read the next paragraph:

Enter Amelia Bones, Head of the Justice Wing, whose tireless pursuit of truth shattered the Ministry’s stone-cold walls. With iron-clad evidence, fearless courtroom performance, and a mind sharper than any Occamy feather, she unearthed hidden wards and decoded charmed documents that officials hoped would remain buried in the Department’s vaults. Without her, Sirius Black might still languish under Azkaban’s dementor-clouded skies.

A low murmur of admiration swelled. Hermione could see wonder sparkle in Ron’s eyes. “She’s incredible,” he breathed. Professor Sinistra in the staff gallery offered an approving nod.

Hermione’s voice softened as she reached the final lines:

And so, the final verdict rings clear: Sirius Black has been exonerated, awarded full restitution for wrongful imprisonment, and remanded to St. Mungo’s Hospital for both physical and psychological rehabilitation. The echoes of a decade’s torment now give way to applause, flash-bulb photographs, and the promise of healing. May he recover swiftly, his spirit unbroken, and may this Trial of the Century serve as a wake-up call to every marbled corridor of power.

A swell of relief coursed through the Hall. Harry exhaled, shoulders finally slack. Hermione’s quill trembled with emotion, and Ron’s grin was uncontainable.

Hermione cleared her throat one last time and finished:

Stay tuned, my darling gossip-hounds, for in the wake of this storm the ripples of truth will continue to wash over every vault and vellum-lined chamber. And remember: when the Ministry whispers “for your protection,” make sure you’re listening for the story they don’t want you to hear.

A stunned hush followed. Plates were forgotten, goblets left half-full. Then, as one, the students erupted into conversation: some jubilant, some sceptical. A first year cried out, “It’s a new dawn for wizarding justice!” while a Ravenclaw quietly mused, “Words aren’t enough.”

Professor McGonagall stood, voice firm: “Let this be a lesson: don’t let idle gossip guide you—always seek the facts for yourself.” Hagrid leaned forward, voice thick with pride, “Well said, Professor.” Snape merely folded his arms but did not look away, a silent acknowledgment of the truth laid bare.

Hermione closed the scroll and met her friends’ eyes. A flicker of determination lit her features. Harry’s fierce smile shone brighter than any candlelight. Ron reached out, gave Harry’s shoulder a hearty clap, and declared, “To justice, even if it comes late!”

Moments after the Hall’s tumult died to a buzzing undercurrent, Susan Bones slipped through the crowd toward the Gryffindor table. Her robes were neat, her auburn hair pulled back in a brisk braid, but her eyes held a gentler light than usual.

“Harry, Hermione, Ron,” she said, voice warm but hushed. She laid a small, parchment-wrapped bundle on the bench beside Hermione’s parchment. “A message from my aunt.”

Hermione scooted over, and Harry’s hand trembled as he untied the ribbon. Ron leaned in, curiosity and concern etched on his face.

Inside, two letters lay side by side.

Harry picked up the first. In neat, confident script it read:

“Mr Potter
I promised I would right this wrong, and I have. Sirius walks free today because I kept my word to you and to justice itself. Thank you for your patience and your trust.
Amelia Bones, Head of the DMLE”

A genuine smile spread across Harry’s face. He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years. “She did it,” he said softly, then turned to the next letter without hesitation.

He unfolded it carefully, reading aloud:

“Dear Harry,
I’m not sure if you remember me, but I was very close to your parents, James and Lily. They even named me your godfather. I owe you more than I can say for standing by my name and contacting Amelia Bones on my behalf. I’m terribly sorry I couldn’t protect you or them, and that you’ve had to grow up believing the worst about me.

Though I’m free now, the Ministry insists I remain in rehabilitation at St. Mungo’s. I don’t know how long it will take to mend what ten years behind Azkaban stone walls, and worse, my own guilt, have done to me.

When I’m released, I would be honoured if you’d come live with me or, if you’re happy where you are, that you’d at least visit during school breaks. I understand you may already have a life, and I won’t presume. But my home is your home whenever you choose.

Write to me by owl. I want nothing more than to keep in touch and rebuild what was torn apart.

Your godfather,
Sirius”

Harry’s grin widened until his eyes sparkled. He folded the letter neatly, voice steady and bright. “He’s free, Ron. And he can’t wait to see me.” He glanced at Hermione and then at Susan. “Tell your Aunt Amelia I’m in her debt—and Sirius, I’ll write today.”

Ron clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s brilliant news, mate.”

Hermione beamed. “I’m so happy for you, Harry.”

Susan gave a small, satisfied nod. “You’ve both earned this moment.”

Harry stood and stretched his arms wide, all the teenage confidence of a young man who finally feels truly connected. “I’m going to write him back right now,” he announced. Then, parchment in hand and hope in his heart, he strode off toward the owlery, eager to begin a new chapter.

***

Later that evening, Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room clutching his books when Professor McGonagall appeared at the foot of the stairs. Her robes were immaculate, her expression composed but urgent.

“Mr. Potter,” she called softly, pausing only to nod at Ron and Hermione before directing her gaze back to Harry. “Professor Dumbledore would like to see you in his office at once. Please make your way there when you’re ready.”

Harry’s heart fluttered. He rose, murmuring a thank-you, and followed McGonagall through silent corridors lit by the soft glow of late evening lanterns. Dusk settled outside, twilight filtering through the arched windows and mingling with the lantern light. The castle felt hushed, as if holding its breath for what was to come.

At the top of the spiral staircase, McGonagall halted before the stone gargoyle. She tapped its head with her wand; it swung aside without a word. Inside, the Headmaster’s office lay bathed in warm lamplight, Fawkes dozing on his gilded perch.

“Good evening, Harry,” Dumbledore greeted from behind his desk, folding his hands over a scattering of papers. He rose to his full height. “Thank you for coming so promptly.”

Harry stepped forward and lowered himself into the high-backed armchair. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Indeed. You have surely heard that Sirius Black’s name has been cleared.” Harry nodded, relief still fluttering through him. “I have good news: the Ministry has arranged for you to visit Sirius at St. Mungo’s Hospital. Beginning next Saturday, and every other week thereafter, you will have permission to see him—always in the company of an appointed Healer, of course.”

A bright warmth spread through Harry’s chest. “Thank you, Professor. I’ve wanted to know how he’s doing.”

McGonagall, standing quietly to one side, offered a small, approving smile.

Dumbledore raised a gentle finger. “There is one important matter: ten weeks remain until your exams. I trust you understand how vital it is to balance these visits with your studies. Sirius would want you to press on with your lessons.”

Harry straightened. “I will, sir. I promise I won’t let my grades slip.”

“Excellent,” Dumbledore said, returning to his desk. “That is all I ask.” He paused, then looked up. “Minerva—if you please.”

McGonagall bowed and slipped out, closing the gargoyle behind her. The sudden hush left only Dumbledore’s soft breathing and the faint ticking of a bronze clock on his desk.

“There is more I wish to discuss,” Dumbledore said, voice gentle but firm. “Amelia Bones told me you were the first to press for Sirius’s reinvestigation. I confess, I wonder… how did you come to know he was innocent?”

Harry’s pulse thundered. He bit his lip, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks as he glanced at a stack of parchment stamped with the Wizengamot seal, a silent reminder of high-powered magic and secrecy. He swallowed hard, unsure how to answer. Fawkes stirred in his sleep, a tailfeather brushing the crystal inkwell with a soft clink.

“By… a stroke of luck,” he began, voice thick. “We uncovered that Ron’s pet rat was really Peter Pettigrew in disguise, and knowing that Susan Bones’s aunt headed the DMLE, we passed our findings along to her niece. She carried them straight to Madam Bones.” He pressed his fingers to his palms, remorse flickering across his expression.

At those words, Fawkes lifted his head, ruffling his crimson feathers as though sensing the room’s tension.

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose. A long moment passed, broken only by the grandfather clock’s sonorous tick. “Why did you not come to me with that information? I might have assisted sooner.”

Harry’s throat constricted. He remembered the walls he’d hit whenever he’d tried to involve Dumbledore before—Fudge’s interference, the endless delays. He looked away. “I—I… didn’t realize you could intervene, Professor,” he stammered. “I thought you were… simply the headmaster of Hogwarts. I didn’t know you were Supreme Mugwump or that you had sway at the Ministry.” He kept his eyes fixed on his hands, bracing himself against Dumbledore’s silent scrutiny.

Dumbledore studied him intently, blue eyes searching, until Harry couldn’t bear the weight and chanced a quick glimpse upward. At last, Dumbledore inclined his head. “Very well. Perhaps you did not know.”

He leaned forward, expression softening. “Do you have any questions about the trial itself? I will answer as much as I can.”

Harry swallowed. Then, taking a deep breath, he asked the question burning inside him: “Professor… why did you allow Sirius to be sent to Azkaban without a formal hearing? Why didn’t you insist on due process before he was imprisoned?”

Dumbledore’s shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes for a beat, exhaling a slow sigh. “I made a grave mistake, Harry. In those chaotic times, my fear for the wizarding community blinded me. I acted on trust when evidence was needed. When I heard Black’s name read aloud in that courtroom, saw the weight of every pair of eyes condemning him without evidence, a chill ran through me. I knew then I’d failed him, yet I did nothing to stop it. For that, I am truly sorry.”

Harry’s lips pressed together. “But did you truly not know who the Secret Keeper was? And… wasn’t it you who cast the Fidelius Spell on my parents’ home?”

Dumbledore blinked, surprise flickering across his face. “Why would you think I cast it?”

Harry’s cheeks burned as he glanced again at the parchments. “I was told the Fidelius required a particularly powerful caster, someone of exceptional skill. I assumed… it must have been you, sir.”

Dumbledore’s gaze softened into a patient smile. “The Fidelius is not a solitary enchantment: while it demands prodigious power, it can be woven by multiple casters, your parents, Peter Pettigrew, and Sirius all joined their strength. The true force of the charm, however, resides solely in the Secret Keeper. Not even Veritaserum, a potion designed to compel truth, nor the most invasive Legilimency, the magical art of probing another’s thoughts and memories, can wrench that hidden secret from them.”

Harry frowned. “Then why was the role changed to Peter? If no coercion can force a Keeper to betray the secret, Sirius, even under torture, would never have revealed it.”

Dumbledore shook his head, sorrow in his eyes. “I do not know, Harry. That mystery is one you must take to Sirius himself. I can only say that grief and fear led to choices none of us foresaw.”

He reached out, placing a steady hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Believe me, I had no inkling Sirius was not your true Keeper. In my sorrow over your parents’ deaths, I prioritized safety over justice, and I failed both him and you. From now on, Harry, if ever you need guidance or aid, my door stands open.”

Harry’s chest tightened with conflicting emotions: relief, sorrow, lingering doubt. He rose, voice quiet and respectful. “Thank you, Professor.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “Good night, Harry.”

Harry slipped through the gargoyle and down the spiral staircase, the torches along the walls casting flickering shadows over his hurried steps. At the bottom, Ron and Hermione stood beneath a single torchlight, breath misting in the chill. Their faces lit up at his approach, but Hermione’s brow creased with worry.

“Harry, we thought—” she began, voice tight. “Did Dumbledore catch you? Are we all in trouble?”

Ron offered her a reassuring nudge. “Honestly, Hermione, if this was about our midnight rendezvous, he’d have summoned all three of us, not just Harry.”

Hermione bit her lip and looked to Harry for confirmation. He shrugged, voice calm. “He only sent for me. It wasn’t about our little outing; it was about Sirius.”

A quiet relief washed over Hermione’s face. Ron’s shoulders loosened, and he gave Harry a grateful nod. Together, the trio stepped out onto the dew-slick grass, the castle’s turrets receding behind them.

They walked in companionable silence down the winding path that led toward the edge of the grounds, where Hagrid’s lantern glow swung gently beside his hut. Moonlight pooled in the hollows of hedges, and the distant hoot of an owl echoed over the lawns. Each footfall on gravel carried them closer to their secret mission: delivering Norbert to Charlie at midnight.

Around the hut’s corner, Hagrid knelt in the lantern glow, cradling the wooden crate that held Norbert. The dragon’s ebony scales seemed to drink the light from the air, and every few seconds a soft snuffle vibrated through the slats.

Hagrid cooed, “There’s my baby,” then rummaged beneath his coat for a ragged teddy. He pressed it through the bars, and Norbert sniffed once before snapping the toy into tatters. Hagrid laughed between sobs. “Well, he’s got proper dragon taste, ’e does!” he said, patting the crate. “But I can’t jus’ leave ’im ’ere.”

Hermione kneeled beside him. “Charlie’s Dragon Preserve has proper dens, expert handlers, room for Norbert to stretch his wings.”

Ron placed a steady hand on Hagrid’s shoulder. “Charlie’s my brother. He’s studied dragons his whole life and knows Norwegian ridgebacks better than anyone.”

Hagrid’s grip tightened on the crate. “I can’t abandon ‘im,” he whispered, voice cracked with love.

“You won’t,” Harry said, voice firm. “I’m sure Charlie will let you visit during the summer.”

Hagrid’s chest heaved as he pressed the crate closer. “Summer?” he whispered, eyes bright. “I’ll be countin’ th’ days ’til I see ’im again. Yeh’ve no idea ’ow much that means… thank yeh, Harry.”

Harry drew a silver skull-engraved coin from his pocket and pressed its edge. With a soft click, the Invisibility Cloak unfurled like liquid night, sliding around the crate. “We’ll meet Charlie at the highest tower at midnight,” Harry promised. “You’ll see Norbert again, Hagrid.”

Hermione smoothed the cloak’s folds over the crate’s top and sides. “It covers only two people plus the crate. We need to decide who goes under.”

Ron’s jaw clenched. He glanced at Hermione and Harry, then dropped his voice. “Remember that first time we tried?”

For a heartbeat, memory swallowed them whole: they’d hauled Norbert, then barely hatched, up the tower’s narrow, frost-cold steps. Inevitably, ineluctably, the cloak slipped free from their shoulders at the summit, vanishing into shadow as though the very stones demanded it. No matter how they’d tried to secure it, they always left it behind. The instant they turned to descend, Filch’s lantern beam cleaved the darkness and spotlighted their figures. Moments later, the castle’s corridors roared with shouting. Snape scolded them before sending them into the Forbidden Forest days later for detention. There, trailing moonlight and fear, Harry and Hermione had stumbled into the wraith of Voldemort, his gaunt form bent over a broken unicorn’s bloodied flank. The thing had turned on them, and in that forest stillness, they had died. Then the world reset, tossing them back aboard the Hogwarts Express as if fate insisted, they endure it all again.

Ron turned fully to her. “Hermione, go back to the common room. We’ll take the cloak and the crate. It’s too dangerous if you stay.”

Hermione shook her head, tears in her eyes. “I won’t let you face it alone.” Her voice trembled, but her resolve blazed. “I’ve faced it before. I can do it again.”

Harry stepped between her and the crate. “No. We won’t risk you. Ron and I will take the cloak. You head back to the common room, then wait for us there.”

Hermione’s eyes glistened. She swallowed, squared her shoulders, and nodded. “Be safe.”

Hagrid blinked, tears brimming. “Be careful, yeh two.” He pressed Norbert’s snout to his own one last time. “Take ’im to Charlie. He’ll teach ’im to fly proper.”

Under the cloak’s shadow, Harry and Ron lifted the crate handles. Norbert’s soft snuffles echoed in their ears, the only sound in the cloak’s silent world. Hermione slipped away along the hut’s far side, footsteps light.

They wound through the grounds in darkness, the cloak’s velvet folds shielding them. Midnight neared, and at last they reached the top of the Astronomy Tower. Harry pressed the coin closed; the cloak vanished.

Harry and Ron caught their breath as Charlie appeared at the parapet’s edge, lantern light catching the copper tones of his red hair. He was flanked by three of his friends, Fiona, Jacob, and Darius, each dressed in patched leather jackets and woollen scarves, broomsticks in hand. Charlie strode forward, grin cracking his face. “Ron! And Harry, good of you to make it.”

Ron handed Harry over with a mock bow. “Harry, meet my brother Charlie.”

Fiona stepped up, her eyes warm. “Glad you made it. Poor little hatchling must be eager to stretch his wings.” Jacob nodded and gestured toward a series of leather straps clipped to the parapet wall. “We rigged a harness here, see? Straps across Norbert’s crate, reinforced grommets, loops for each broom handle.” Darius ran a hand along the stitching. “Safe as we could make it. Once we lift him, he’ll ride steady.”

Charlie tapped his broom. “Ready?” The four of them mounted in a flash: Darius at Norbert’s head, Fiona and Jacob at the sides, Charlie at the rear. With synchronized kicks, they lifted into the sky, the crate swinging easily beneath them. For a moment, Norbert’s snuffles drifted up to Harry and Ron as the group arced off toward the distant ridge.

Left alone, Harry and Ron leaned against the parapet, shoulders brushing. Harry slipped the silver coin from his pocket and pressed its edge. Nothing happened. He jabbed again. “Cloak?” he muttered. The coin remained stubbornly shut.

Ron exhaled. “Time to face the music.”

Harry glanced down the spiral stairs. “Who do you think Filch will take us to—McGonagall or Snape?”

Ron smirked. “McGonagall. You owe me five Knuts if it’s not Snape this time.”

“Deal,” Harry said, tucking the coin away. They shared a final grin and set off down the stone steps.

Halfway down, a harsh squeak cut through the hush. They froze. Argus Filch appeared; lantern held like a cudgel. “Well, well, well, we are in trouble!”

The boys exchanged a rueful look as Filch’s withered hand snapped forward beckoning them to follow him.

Harry sighed. “Better McGonagall than Snape,” Ron whispered. Filch hustled them past the portraits and through cold corridors, the clang of the tower door echoing behind them. As they trudged after him, Harry murmured, “Ready to lose that bet?”

Ron grinned wryly. “Only if you think we’re heading to the dungeon.”

Their laughter drifted back down the stairs, mingled with Filch’s indignant mutterings and the promise of another long detention.

They sank onto the worn leather chairs in Professor McGonagall’s study, Filch looming by the door like a silent gargoyle. Ron nudged Harry and slipped a hand into his pocket. “Five Knuts,” he muttered. Harry groaned, fishing the coins out and dropping them into Ron’s palm. “Happy?”

Before Ron could answer, the door swung open. Professor McGonagall strode in, Neville in tow, his robes dusty, cheeks flushed. “Mr. Longbottom, am I to understand you added yourself to Potter and Weasley’s late-night escapade?” Neville shrank back, eyes wide, but McGonagall’s attention snapped to Harry and Ron.

“Potter! Weasley!” Her voice crackled. “Convincing Draco Malfoy that you were smuggling a dragon—do you realize how utterly reckless that was?” She strode toward them, robes billowing. “I suppose you think it’s funny that Longbottom here heard the story and believed it, too? You put yourselves in needless peril, all for a jest!”

Harry and Ron exchanged a helpless look as her fury mounted. She clutched the arm of her chair until her knuckles whitened. “I warned you about breaking curfew! Did you honestly believe I would overlook this again?” She paused, eyes blazing. “No. I will not tolerate such childish endangerment.”

She raised a single finger. “You will each serve detention, and I’m docking ninety points from Gryffindor—thirty from each of you. You will also write an essay on the importance of honesty and the responsibilities that come with magic.”

Silence fell as she turned on her heel. “Now march!” she ordered, her voice cold as stone. Filch hustled Neville between Harry and Ron, and McGonagall’s robes swept behind them as they filed out.

At the portrait hole, Hermione waited, worry etched into her features. As soon as the door swung open, she rushed forward. “Are you all right? What happened?”

Harry managed a rueful shrug. “Let’s just say Gryffindor’s got fewer points tonight.” Ron gave Neville a comforting pat. Together, the three first years stepped into the warmth of the common room, the crackle of the fire chasing away the sting of McGonagall’s wrath.

***

A week before the end of term exams, night fell over a chilly Hogwarts, and the last bell’s clang hadn’t yet faded when Filch stomped into the entrance hall. His lantern gleamed like a crucible fire, catching Ron’s worried face, Neville’s startled eyes, Draco’s smirk of half-concealed panic, and Harry’s tight-lipped resignation.

Without ceremony, Filch shoved Harry forward. “Up and at ’em,” he barked. “You lot are in for the last detention of this term: Forbidden Forest style. And don’t think my responsibilities end at sniffing out stray socks. In my day, miscreants were suspended by their thumbs, yanked under the Great Hall rafters until confession came easy.” His hooked finger jabbed the air. “I’ll have none of your midnight dragon-smuggling nonsense again!”

He marched them out into the misty night, boots splashing over dew-slick grass, as the castle’s turrets disappeared behind them. The boys trudged in single file: Neville huffing beside Ron, Draco flanked by Harry, all of them exchanging glances that mingled dread with defiance.

They climbed the winding path toward Hagrid’s hut, Filch rattling threats into the hush. “No loafing. One false step, and I’ll have Professor Snape draw every drop of blood from your veins for potions. Understand?”

By the time they reached the hut, Hagrid’s lantern glow painted his great silhouette on the cabin wall. Fang’s low growl rumbled from beside Hagrid’s feet as the door creaked open.

“Hurry up Filch,” Hagrid mumbled, voice gentle against Filch’s sneer. “An—erm—welcome ter yeh three.” He squinted at Draco. “Er—you too, Malfoy.”

Filch harrumphed and pointed into the shadows beyond the cabin door. “Ready yourselves. You’ll follow Hagrid’s lead straight into that forest. One mistake—”

Hagrid cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Come along then. Fang’ll show yeh the path. Be careful now, easy ter lose yer footin’, an more’n that out there.”

The five of them filed past Filch, into the cold embrace of the trees. Filch spat over his shoulder. “Return before dawn or I swear, I’ll have you peeling potatoes in the kitchens until summer break!”

Under the high canopy, Hagrid’s lantern cast dancing shadows across ancient roots and fallen leaves. Fang padded ahead, black as night, nose twitching at scents no student had ever dreamed. Neville stumbled over a gnarled root; Harry caught his arm.

“Steady,” Harry whispered. “Fang’s leading, just follow him.”

Hagrid loomed beside them. “Easy now, keep close,” he rumbled. “There’s a clearin’ jus’ up ahead, where th’ track starts.” His eyes twinkled. “An’ remember: no larkin’. This forest’s got teeth.”

They crossed a mossy ridge into a silent glade. Dew glittered on spiderwebs like liquid jewels. Three massive centipede-like roots twined overhead, forming a natural arch. Under it, Hagrid halted.

“Look ’ere,” he whispered, kneeling. Patches of silvery blood shimmered on moss. “That’s fresh. Follow this, an we’ll find th’ poor creature.”

Harry knelt beside him, heart pounding. “What’s this Hagrid?” he asked the half giant. “It looks like blood… is a creature injured?”

Hagrid crouched, lantern light trembling across his kindly face. “That’s unicorn blood,” he said gently. “Somethin’s been killin’ unicorns in th’ forest—and drinkin’ their blood.”

Harry swallowed. “What kind of creature could kill a unicorn?”

Hagrid shook his head, voice low. “I dunno rightly. That’s why we’ve gotta follow these patches an find th’ poor beast.”

Neville peered at the glimmering stains. “B-but why kill a unicorn? They’re so… sacred.”

Hagrid’s eyes grew solemn. “Unicorn blood can save yer life if yer close t’ death, it’s a powerful cure. But at a terrible price. Slaughter a creature so pure an’ it curses yeh t’ a half-life. Ain’t worth it.”

The forest fell silent around them, and Fang gave a soft whuff. Ron’s knuckles whitened on Harry’s arm, Neville pressed closer, and even Draco’s bravado faltered as the lantern light wavered across the path ahead.

The boys pressed against the trunk of a giant oak, heartbeats loud in the hush. Draco’s breath came in shallow gasps. Neville’s legs trembled. Harry felt the cold press of Hagrid’s presence at his back, a silent promise of protection.

Fang’s head rested on his paws, ears twitching. The forest breathed around them, a symphony of rustling leaves, distant hoots, and the soft drip-drip-drip of sap. Time stretched, and each second felt like an exam in endurance.

They pressed on through tangled ferns until, at last, the bloodstains grew too numerous to ignore. Clusters of silver dotted the leaf–littered ground, fanning out into two diverging trails.

Draco paused beneath a yew, stomach twisting. “Wait ’til my father hears we’ve been hunting unicorn killers,” he muttered, voice tight.

Harry traced the leftward stains. “We need to split up. Hagrid, Neville, Malfoy: go right. Ron, Fang and I will take the left fork.” He stood, voice firm. “That way we double our chances of finding the unicorn or the creature responsible.”

Hagrid’s lantern bobbed as he joined them. “Right fork—ye three stick close. Left fork—Harry, Ron, Fang, you too.” He rapped his knuckles on Harry’s shoulder. “If yeh run into trouble, fire a red spark,” he said. “If yeh spot the unicorn, send up a green blaze. Understan’?”

“Red means danger, green means found,” Ron repeated.

“Exactly,” Hagrid said. He turned to Draco and Neville. “Careful now.”

Draco swallowed once, then squared his shoulders. Neville nodded, pale but determined.

“Let’s be off,” Hagrid rumbled. He led the rightward trio into the gloom while Harry, Ron, and Fang veered left.

Immediately the forest closed in, each fern and root feeling alive beneath their feet. Harry hushed Fang to a slow padding pace, eyes fixed on the gleaming blood.

Ron edged closer, voice low. “You remember the first time we came this deep? We thought it was just Hagrid’s hunch.”

Harry nodded. “We followed the trail and stumbled right into Voldemort’s wraith. He was feeding on a dying unicorn’s neck.” He shuddered. “We barely got Firenze’s charge in time.”

“Then last loop,” Ron continued, “we lost the centaur’s call altogether and nearly froze when the wraith drifted toward us.”

Harry’s face darkened. “Firenze only appears the moment the unicorn breathes its last. We need to time it perfectly. Too early, and Firenze won’t come. Too late, we won’t survive.”

They crouched beside a mottled tree trunk where two paths forked in the twilight. Fang sniffed high, nostrils flaring. Harry closed his eyes. “We’ve got ten minutes until we hear the breaking twig, that’s our signal.”

Ron checked his watch by the moonlight. “Five minutes, forty–two seconds… I’ve got Plan B if Firenze doesn’t show.”

Harry glanced at him. “Run the Glacius Charm on the wraith, maybe slow him down long enough for us to distract him.”

“And Plan C?” Ron prompted, voice steady.

“Summon every bit of magic we can; Patronus, if we have to.” Harry swallowed. “I don’t want to use it on a wraith, but if it means saving each other…”

Ron nodded. “Agreed.”

They rose, wands at the ready, hearts pounding. Fang gave a quiet growl as they stepped forward onto the left fork. Above them, stars peeked through the branches.

Behind the misty veil, the forest seemed to hold its breath and somewhere in its centre, life and death awaited.

They pressed on until the forest opened into a narrow clearing, moonlight pooling where a fallen log lay half–buried in ferns. There, huddled over a broken horn, stood the wraith—Voldemort’s gaunt shadow—drinking the blood of a dying unicorn. Its dark form shivered with each gulp, robes flapping like torn willows in a chill wind.

Harry froze. Beside him, Ron’s breath came in sharp pants. Fang growled low and steady, hackles bristling. The unicorn’s silver flank rippled in its last tremor; its eyes, milky and unfocused, stared past the wraith as though seeking mercy.

Without thinking, Harry whispered, “Now.” He flicked his wand, sending a red spark arcing through the trees. Ron joined him, both curses fizzing into the gloom. The wraith hissed, head whipping around, and floated toward them in a blur of malice.

Before it could strike, a thunderous neigh shattered the silence. Firenze charged from the shadows, hooves drumming like war drums. With a powerful thrust, the centaur’s chest smashed into the wraith’s flank. The spectre reeled and vanished in a spray of shadow.

Harry and Ron staggered back as Firenze reared, eyes blazing gold. He fixed them with a silent glare that glowed in the lantern light. Then, as though conceding respect, he stamped his front hooves and whinnied once.

“Can you ride?” he offered in deep, rolling speech. “I’ll carry you from this horror.”

Harry exchanged a quick look with Ron. Neither answered for a heartbeat. Then Harry shook his head. “No… thank you, Firenze. We don’t ride our friends. You’re no beast to mount.”

Firenze’s ears pricked. He tilted his head, impressed. A soft rumble echoed through his chest.

He nodded, then swept them into a larger glade ringed by ancient oaks. There, five other centaurs emerged from shadow, eyes cold and wary. Their leader, Bane, snorted contempt.

“Firenze,” Bane hissed, “why have you broken the stars’ design and brought humans here?”

Firenze squared his shoulders. “They needed help. The stars showed me their fate waiting beyond nightmare.”

Bane’s nostrils flared. “You set yourself against the heavens, Firenze. Have we not read what is to come in the movements of the planets?”

Harry stepped forward, voice firm despite his pounding heart. “You misread the sky. Tonight, the stars guided Firenze here to save us, my life was written to continue until dawn. Your sight has failed.”

The centaurs exchanged glances. Bane’s lips curled in a sneer, but the others murmured among themselves. They looked upward, heads bowed to read the constellations. Their voices rose in an ancient chant about time’s river, destiny’s currents, and the fragile spark of life waiting beyond dusk.

At last Bane’s sneer faded. He dipped his head. “Perhaps your words hold truth, young wizard. We will not thwart your saviour’s will.”

With that, the centaurs slipped back into the trees, leaving only Firenze’s chestnut flank in the lantern glow. He turned back to Harry and Ron, nodding approval.

Harry raised his wand. A single emerald spark soared above the treetops. Ron followed, and Firenze’s deep neigh echoed in delight.

Hagrid burst into the clearing, breathless, eyes shining, his heavy voice drifted in relief. “Blimey! Firenze!” he called. Neville and Draco clustered at the clearing’s edge, wide-eyed. “Ye found th’ unicorn, then?”

Harry pointed to the far end of the clearing. “There, Hagrid. It’s dead—unfortunately. The wraith drank its blood, but Firenze saved us.”

“By Merlin, you’re safe,” he whispered, voice thick with awe. He looked up at Firenze, stammering, “Thank ye, thank ye, Firenze for savin’ them.”

Firenze dipped his head in quiet pride, then looked to Harry and Ron. “You showed courage,” he rumbled. “Your loyalty honours the stars.”

Ron offered a wide grin. “And your loyalty honours us, Firenze.”

Hagrid rose, brushing snow from his coat. “Forest’s no place for young’uns,” he muttered, cheeks pink. “Let’s get back before Filch turns us into potato peelers.”

Firenze turned as if to leave, then paused. To Harry he spoke in a voice like wind through reeds: “Remember… death is but an end of one path. Time waits for no heart’s desire. Cherish each dawn, for you walk between shadow and dawn’s first light.”

Neville’s brow creased. “What did he mean?”

Harry shrugged, meeting Ron’s eyes. “I’m not sure.”

With dawn’s first glow gilding the treetops, the group slipped back down the winding path, safe, battered, and bound tighter by the forest’s perils and the centaur’s cryptic blessing. They emerged onto the dew-slick grass just as dawn brushed the castle turrets in rose and gold.

One week now remained until the first years’ end-of-term exams, but no spell, no jinx, no amount of study would prepare them for the true trial still ahead: a desperate chase through the barred gates of the third-floor corridor, where the Philosopher’s Stone lay hidden behind deadly wards and Voldemort’s shadowed wraith waited once more. As Hogwarts stirred awake, Harry Potter realized that the greatest exam would not be written on parchment but faced in the silent traps and secret passageways guarding that glittering prize.

Chapter Text

A week later, the Great Hall fell into studious silence as first-years filed in for their end-of-year exams. Scrolls of parchment lay before them, inked with Potions questions, Charms incantations, and history essays. Hermione perched on her chair, quill poised and brow smooth; she knew every answer already. Ron and Harry exchanged amused glances, sliding their scrolls from left to right so their neighbours wouldn’t peek.

The final exam scroll slid into Professor Flitwick’s satchel with a soft flap. Harry, Ron, and Hermione rose from their desks together, quills still in hand, the hall’s hush dissolving behind them as they stepped into the sunlit corridor.

Hermione slipped her wand back into her robes. “Done,” she announced, voice bright. “I’ll surely get an O on Charms, Transfiguration, Defence, and I even managed a perfect sketch of the night sky for Astronomy.”

Ron shook his head, grinning. “Honestly, these exams are a joke. We’ve looped through this term a dozen times. The only challenge is not getting perfect marks every paper.”

Harry laughed. “I left a blank space in the History essay, just to feel challenged. After twenty loops, I know when the troll fought those medieval knights better than my own birthday.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Stop bragging. Besides, I never fake a few mistakes just to blend in. Only I get full marks every. single. time.” she teased in a singsong voice, sticking out her tongue playfully. “Let’s find a quiet corner.”

They squeezed past clusters of younger first-years rushing off to diner and slipped into a shadowed alcove beside a stained-glass window. Ron flopped onto a carved wooden bench.

“So,” Harry said, stretching his arms, “now that exams are over, what’s next? Midnight awaits.”

Hermione folded her arms. “You mean that back-to-back trial through the trapdoor? Devil’s Snare, flying keys, wizard’s chess, the troll, the potion riddle, and Quirrell’s final showdown?”

Ron nodded, eyes gleaming. “The loop drags us through every time. If Harry doesn’t reach the Stone, he dies; back to year one and another train ride.”

Hermione sighed. “It’s absurd. Dumbledore’s own enchantment on the Mirror of Erised means no one can remove the Stone while it’s hidden there. Yet we’re forced to try anyway.”

Harry straightened. “We’ve practiced every trap dozens of times. Tonight, will be a piece of cake.”

Hermione’s lips curved into a teasing smile. “Routine for you, maybe… until you nearly suffocated in Devil’s Snare and I had to yank you free by your robes.”

Ron chuckled. “Or when Harry got tossed by that giant knight and spent the rest of the loop insisting it was ‘an accidental butt-check.’”

Harry held up his hands. “All right, no cockiness. Just steady magic and clear heads.”

“Don’t forget the flute,” Ron reminded, tugging at Harry’s sleeve. “You know how Fluffy only calmed when you played last time. Hagrid swore it’s tuned to a unicorn’s lullaby.”

Harry patted his robes and smiled. “Right… Hagrid’s Christmas present.” He slid a hand into his pocket and produced the carved wooden flute, its surface worn smooth where fingers had gripped it. “Here, keep it. You’re better at holding a tune anyway.”

Ron grinned and took the flute, cradling it like something precious. “I am not going to mess this up.”

Harry drew the silver coin from his pocket. He tapped its edge and whispered, “Cloak.” The Cloak took a long, reluctant second to unwind from shadow, as if remembering that time it refused to appear during the dragon-smuggling fiasco, then snapped obediently back into the coin. He let out a short laugh. “There we are.”

Hermione consulted her watch. “Sun’s down. Curfew’s five minutes ago.” She nodded. “Ready?”

They slipped through the portrait hole, down empty stairwells and past lifeless suits of armour, until they reached the barred door on the third floor. Harry’s scar tingled. He tucked the coin safely away, gripped his wand.

“Here we go,” he whispered.

They reached the barred oak door on the third‐floor corridor and Hermione held up her wand. “Alohomora.”

The lock clicked, the door swung open, and Harry froze. “It’s absurd,” he muttered, staring at Fluffy’s three heads snarling beyond. “A first-year spell opens this door, yet there’s a giant dog waiting inside. You’d think they’d ward it more thoroughly.”

Ron scratched his head. “What were they thinking? If the corridor’s meant to stop intruders, why let a bunch of first years pick the lock?”

Harry dipped his chin. “It’s Dumbledore’s manipulation, isn’t it? He wants us to find our own way through every trial. Of course, the door must be simple enough to open with Alohomora.”

Hermione shook her head. “No. I asked Hagrid last loop. The answer’s far simpler.” She turned to Harry. “Who’s the only one allowed in there after hours?”

Ron grinned. “Hagrid, obviously. No one else could sneak past Fluffy to drop off supper.”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled. “Exactly. Hagrid’s not a fully trained wizard, he shows up with his broken wand tucked in his pink parasol. If the door needed anything more advanced than Alohomora, he couldn’t open it to feed the dog.”

Harry stared at her, stunned. “I… I never thought of that. I’ve gotten a bit paranoid about Dumbledore guiding everything, haven’t I?”

Ron clapped him on the shoulder. “Only a tad.”

They stepped into the chamber. Fluffy stood guard in the shadows, three massive heads turning to watch their approach, eyes glinting red. Ron lifted the flute to his lips and breathed the first soft notes of the lullaby. The melody was low and simple; the tune Hagrid had hummed while warming a supper. Slowly, each of Fluffy’s heads lowered; the beast’s breathing eased, the snarl relaxing into a rumbling sigh. Ron’s fingers never left the flute; the lullaby never wavered.

Harry edged forward. “Obviously the giant dog would fall right on the trapdoor,” he said.

While Ron kept the tune steady, Harry and Hermione worked the trapdoor. “Wingardium Leviosa!” they said together. The giant dog’s bulk rose a few feet as though caught on invisible threads. Harry and Hermione guided Fluffy clear of the circular stone panel in the centre of the corridor, piloting him a safe distance away.

Once he hovered to one side, Hermione found the tarnished iron handle built into the trapdoor and tugged. The board gave a long, reluctant creak as it swung open. “On three,” Hermione whispered. “One—two—three!”

They leapt together into the darkness beyond, Ron’s lullaby still a soft, steady presence behind them.

They landed in a tangle of thick vines, the cold stone floor far below. Hulk-green tendrils coiled around their legs, squeezing tight as the world dimmed to shadow.

“Lumos Solem!” Hermione cried, stamping her wand on the floor. A shaft of pure sunlight flashed from her wand tip, and the vines recoiled, hissing and wilting back into darkness. Within seconds they dropped free, shaking damp leaves from their robes.

Breathing hard, Harry brushed dirt from his sleeves. “See? I told you it was easy-peasy.” He strutted past Hermione, grinning as Ron punched his shoulder.

Ron shook his head with a rueful laugh. “Don’t get cocky, Harry, that was nothing compared to the chess. You can’t predict those enchanted knights and rooks. Last time, I got flattened by a pawn.”

Harry’s grin vanished. He glanced up at the silent, vaulted ceiling and swallowed. “Right. No more jokes. Let’s go.”

They crept into the next chamber, its floor littered with hundreds of brass keys, each winged and darting like angry insects. “Ready?” Hermione whispered.

Harry nodded and lunged onto the nearest broom; he grabbed the smallest key on the third row without breaking stride. “Got it,” he called. “Easy.”

They dashed forward and found the second iron door. Harry fitted the key, the lock clicked, and it swung open silently. Beyond lay the chessboard, its giant ivory and ebony pieces poised for battle.

Ron drew in a slow breath. “This is where it gets harder,” he warned. “We must play actual wizard’s chess. Every move can smash you flat or hurl you off the board.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “No loop‑death by knight’s boot this time.”

They stepped into the chess chamber, wands stowed, heartbeats loud in the vaulted silence. The giant pieces loomed like a carved forest of intent; ivory eyes watched them as if the board itself judged their steps.

Ron took the lead, jaw set. “All right! No magic. We play it properly.”

He pointed with a steady finger. “Harry, you’re the Black King. Take e8.” Harry planted himself on the polished stone.

“Hermione, you’re a Rook. Stand on a8.” Hermione slipped into the corner.

“And I’ll be your edge pawn,” Ron said, sliding onto h7. “Flank pawns face the fewest attacks, statistically safer.” The pawns on g7 and a7 fell into line beside him, forming a crude shield.

Across the board the ivory pieces stirred. White’s knight leapt to c3; the enchanted pieces obeyed commands with the graceless violence of living things. Rooks clattered, bishops lunged, and the air filled with the ringing percussion of wood on marble. Ron barked orders, guiding Hermione’s rook into place and sending Harry’s king a careful step at a time.

Then the ivory queen angled herself toward their flank, gliding with calculated menace for h7. Ron’s face went white. He braced himself on his square and drew breath. “This is where I go,” he said, every word clipped and deliberate. “Remember the loops; every time I fell it was my choice.”

Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth. “Ron—”

“It’s easier if I sacrifice myself,” he pressed on, eyes bright with something like a smile. “If I’m lost today, it’s because I chose to protect you.” He shoved himself forward into the queen’s line, an offering he made with his own two feet.

The ivory queen swept in and struck him down; Ron’s body skidded and fell, robes torn, and lay motionless. Harry’s throat tightened at the sight. “Finish it,” Hermione breathed.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He pointed to his bishop and the dark-squared piece obeyed, sliding through the ranks with a thunderous clap as it hammered into c5, a check that opened the heart of White’s defence. The board answered with a rasp as the White Queen lunged to capture that bishop, moving to c5 and removing Harry’s tempo with a single, greedy motion.

For a breathless second the chamber seemed suspended. Then Harry’s king‑side knight leapt in a clean, impossible arc to h3, landing with a ringing finality. The white king stood exposed, trapped by the knight’s fork and the opened lines; there was nowhere left to run. The heavy figure tottered and fell.

“Checkmate,” Harry whispered, voice raw.

The ivory army dissolved into a fine dust that sparkled for a heartbeat before vanishing. The heavy door beyond the board groaned open, cool corridor air spilling across the marble like a benediction. Harry dropped to his knees beside Ron, hands already working; Hermione was there at his shoulder, voice steady as she checked for injuries.

“He’s breathing, but he’s out cold,” Harry said after a practised flick of his wand. Hermione laid a quick diagnostic charm across Ron’s temples; a pale shimmer traced runes and subsided. “No broken bones,” she reported, voice tight with guarded hope. She whispered a conjuration and a narrow cot folded from the floor, padding unfurling. They eased Ron onto it, Harry casting a faint ward about the mattress.

They stood for a moment over their sleeping friend, the victory heavy in their chests. Hermione met Harry’s eyes. “We finish this,” she said. They rose, wands ready, and stepped through the open door, carrying Ron’s sacrifice with them as resolve and fuel for whatever waited beyond.

They climbed the narrow stairwell from the chess chamber, torches sputtering as they emerged into a vast grotto. The air was colder, stale with damp stone, and a thin drip–drip–drip echoed from overhead stalactites. At its centre stood a troll at least twice the size of the one they’d faced on Halloween. Its mottled skin rippled with muscle, a grotesque crown of bruised flesh swelling above one eyebrow. A dank chill curled beneath their feet.

Hermione’s breath caught. “Most loops he’s already out cold,” she whispered. “But not this time.”

Harry stared at the beast, wand stowed. “Voldemort’s skill must be slipping,” he muttered. “He can’t even knock out a troll properly.”

“Shut up and concentrate!” Hermione hissed. “It’s awake and furious.”

The troll’s cavernous maw snapped as it caught sight of them. With a roar that shook the torchlight, it charged. Harry and Hermione darted aside, hearts pounding. The foul stench of its breath hit them like a wall.

Hermione raised her wand. “Bubble‑Head Charm!” she cried, flicking her wrist. Instantly, a translucent dome formed around her head, the dank chill cut off as if a door had slammed shut. Harry followed suit—he’d mastered it during the Triwizard tasks—and sealed himself in his own protective bubble. The grotto’s damp odour faded to nothing.

They circled the troll, boots scraping on the uneven floor. It swung a gargantuan club, cleaving stone where they’d stood moments before, each crunch of rock a percussion in the dripping gloom.

“We can’t hurt it with spells,” Harry shouted. “It’s impervious!”

“No,” Hermione panted, “But we can use the cave.”

They moved in practiced tandem. Hermione stamped and danced to one side, voice loud with taunts: “Over here! Over here!” The troll pivoted, snarling, its head lurching toward her orb. Harry sprinted behind a jagged boulder and raised his wand, fingers white on the haft.

“Watch out!” he yelled.

He didn’t try to strike the troll; he aimed at the ceiling. Harry drove the wand forward and spoke a sharp, controlled spell. The tip of his wand flared; rock dust puffed as a long, brittle stalactite shattered where it met the grotto’s seam. The re‑shaped ceiling gave with a grinding crack, and a carriage‑sized boulder, dislodged by the blow, tumbled free.

The boulder crashed down with a thunderous roar, stone dust billowing, as it slammed into the troll’s side. The cavern quaked, and the beast’s roar dissolved into a wet, strangled thud.

They waited, breathless. The troll collapsed in a thunderous heap, limbs sprawling and lying still. Hermione slid out of her bubble and rushed to Harry’s side. He exhaled, fists unclenching.

Hermione studied him, eyes bright with relief. “You didn’t have to kill it,” she said quietly.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I couldn’t risk it waking again, and worse, reaching Ron. He’s defenceless on that cot.”

Hermione’s lips curved into a slow nod. “You’re right.”

Without another word, they pressed on through the door and into the next chamber. A low, humming fire glowed around seven potion bottles: Snape’s riddle waiting on the stone wall.

Hermione bent over the riddle. “Honestly, Harry, you don’t even need me,” she teased. “You know the answer already.”

Harry offered her a gentle smile. He glanced back where their friend lay still, and then at Hermione’s worried eyes. For a heartbeat, his feet faltered, his heart hammering with the weight of every choice that had led him here.

He pressed a steady hand to his chest and drew a slow breath. “Go back to Ron,” he said, voice soft but certain. “Wait here for Dumbledore’s rescue. He won’t be long.”

Hermione’s eyes glistened. She put a hand on his arm. “Don’t you dare die on me, Potter. I swear, if I wake up on the train without you I—”

Before she could finish, Harry swept her into a fierce hug. Their arms tightened, hearts pounding in unison. Hermione’s hand pressed to Harry’s chest, and his palm lingered on her back, an unspoken promise passing between them.

When he finally released her, his gaze was steel-strong. “Everything will be okay. Trust me.”

Hermione swallowed, her voice firm despite the tremor. “I know you will. I have complete faith in you, Harry.”

He offered her a small, reassuring smile, then turned to the gleaming bottles. His hand hovered over the suspects, fingers trembling almost imperceptibly as his heartbeat skipped a beat. Steeling himself, he lifted the correct vial, the one to pass through the purple flames guarding the final door.

He raised it to his lips and swallowed in one smooth motion. The flames hissed and parted, revealing Professor Quirrell’s hooded figure beyond.

Harry squared his shoulders and crossed into the firelight, leaving the chamber of potions—and Hermione, and their sleeping friend—behind. In the last room, he knew, Voldemort awaited.

The little chamber beyond was dim and spare: a single polished mirror in an ornate silver frame, its green light swallowing the shadows. Professor Quirrell hunched before it, fingers fluttering over the glass like a man trying to catch a dream. He started at Harry’s step, eyes frantic and bright.

“You don’t understand it,” Harry blurted before he could stop himself, voice sharper than he meant. “It shows you what you want. It won’t give it to a thief.”

Quirrell flinched, then smiled with a brittle, nervous twitch. “So certain,” he hissed. “So young.”

Harry’s mouth rode a dangerous edge. He kept his wand up, though his hands shook. “You’ve been stumbling about in the dark with this for weeks. You don’t even know what you’re doing.” The taunt came out hotter than mockery, something raw and old in him making the words worse. “You’re not cleverer than the mirror, Professor. You’re only… desperate.”

Quirrell’s face went slack for a beat, as if the sound of the word had knocked the air from him. Then a thin, wet laugh slipped from him and the turban at the back of his head tightened like a fist. The man’s eyes darted, pleading and furious both.

“Ah,” Quirrell said, voice low. “So brave. So reckless.” He reached as if to touch Harry’s sleeve and the room went colder than stone.

A voice not Quirrell’s, layered, ancient and soft as rot, braided through the chamber and stole the air away. “He thinks he knows,” it said, words like dry leaves. The turban quivered; the man’s posture changed as if something had stepped from shadow into his bones.

Harry’s bravado burned higher, a flare of anger he could not quite tamp down. “You’re not the great wizard you imagine, are you?” he snapped, eyes hard. “You don’t even know how to make the mirror work, and yet you crawl around trying to steal what you don’t deserve. You’re pathetic.”

The voice behind Quirrell laughed, a cold, concentric sound that made Harry’s scar twinge. The turban split at the seam as if some pressure had been released; a pale, terrible face recoiled into view for an instant under the folds, not whole, but something writhing, a hunger that had learned patience. It smiled without humour.

“You are bold, boy,” it said, silk over steel. “You brandish your small truths like weapons. You call to me from the dark. If you are so clever, make the mirror give, then.”

Before Harry could answer, ropes of shadow whipped from the turbaned figure’s fingers and lashed round his wrists and ankles. They bit cold and tight, not easily broken. Harry’s wand clattered to the stone and skittered just out of reach. For the first time his chest tightened with real fear, not for himself, but for what those ropes meant.

Quirrell’s mouth worked; the voice at his back pressed forward, patient and hungry. “If you boast so loudly of your insight, boy,” it breathed, “prove it. Make it give.”

Harry’s instant reaction was fury: he spat a string of words that would have been braver if they had been quieter. He could feel every old grievance in him, years of being looked at, of being told he didn’t belong, cracking into flame. “You think you can scare me because you hide behind someone else?” he snapped. “You’re nothing but a shadow with a voice. You haven’t got the courage to live your own power.”

The thing behind Quirrell hissed and Quirrell’s fingers tightened on the ropes; the bindings pulled Harry forward until the mirror filled his vision. For a heartbeat he flailed in his bindings, furious at himself, so close to freeing his hand, and then so foolish to let his anger hand him a leash.

Harry’s mind split into two urgent, clanging thoughts: the mirror of Erised cannot be stolen by force; it answers only the true desire of the seeker. If he looked, he could make it produce the Stone; if he refused, Quirrell, or what dwelt beneath Quirrell, might suspect that the boy could pierce something they could not. Either way, the very act of looking was a signal.

He tasted the bitter metal of his fear and, beneath it, the hot shame of having been led by his anger. He berated himself in furious whispers: of course you mocked him, of course you let your temper show. He could have kept his mouth shut. He could have been cleverer.

Quirrell leaned close, voice a rasp: “If you will not give it willingly, then show us how to make it obey. You know how, clever boy. Use your knowledge.”

Harry’s throat went dry. He had the knife-edge choice: keep silent and risk the thing behind Quirrell realizing the boy’s strength; or look and draw the Stone out, revealing what he could do. He looked at the ropes biting his skin; he thought of Ron on the cot, of Hermione checking him, of the price they had paid to get this far.

With a breath that tasted of dust and courage, Harry let his anger fall away like a cloak. He calmed himself with the precise, small control he had practised a hundred times over when fear wanted to run him: count, steady the pulse, feel the rope’s slack. He would not be goaded into another mistake.

But he could not risk the other mistake either.

Harry’s face smoothed. He made his voice quiet and level, the voice he used when he wanted people to stop looking at him like he was a thing to be pitied. “All right,” he said. “If that’s what you want, then I’ll look.”

He stopped berating himself. He stopped being the boy who had shouted. For a heartbeat he was only the seeker: breath measured, eyes fixed on the glass, listening for the hush that meant the world had folded itself to his question. The ropes held him, but they could not hold his will. He stepped forward as far as he could and stared into the mirror.

The glass sighed as Harry stared, and the room fell away.

The obsidian chamber unfurled again, vast and choking with shadow. Floating torches guttered in the cold air; their light struck the raised platform and fell away from it like a tide. On that platform, where before there had been a runed containment box, now sat the Philosopher’s Stone, at least his memory called it a plain, red pebble, but the thing in the mirror did not look like any ordinary rock. It gave off a peculiar, concentrated glow that cut through the chamber’s dim like a living thing, a bright, hungry point of warmth set against the world’s winter. The contrast between the Stone’s life‑light and the room’s deathly hush was so sharp it bit.

Death moved then, like a blur of cold wind made flesh. It stepped from the gloom, not a cloaked man this time but the terrible, patient shape he had seen before: skeletal hands, a hollow where a face should be, a scythe that drank the torchlight. Death’s presence pressed the air flat; the floating flames leaned away as if listening.

“It was never yours to keep,” Death said, voice like ice on bone and the slow turning of a page. “All things that borrow breath must answer for their loan. Tools that wrench back what was balanced at the first toll are heavy ledgers. They ask, and the world remembers.”

Harry could not tell whether the words were accusation or instruction; they felt older than language. He watched as Death lifted a bony finger and the scrawled light of the Stone bent toward it. On Death’s finger sat a silver ring, dull as old coins and threaded with a thin rune that made Harry’s palm prickle in sympathetic pain. As the ring passed nearer, the Stone’s glow thinned; light seemed to crawl from the gem into the metal as if the ring drank fire.

At that same instant, in Harry’s trousers pocket, the silver coin flared with a heat that crawled up his leg and pricked his skin. It felt as if the coin and ring were two mouths breathing the same light: one in the mirror, one in his hand, linked across a thing that resembled fate. The coin burned under his fingers with the intensity of a fever, and the sensation pushed all thought away but for a single, bright awareness.

The ring touched the Stone. The platform pulsed once, a sound like a great bell struck under water, and the Stone folded inward as if it had been rolled up and tucked into a palm. The light did not vanish so much as squeeze itself small. For a blink Death’s fingers closed around the Stone and then, with a whisper that tasted of iron and a word Harry could not quite catch, the thing was gone. The mirror’s scene imploded like a throat swallowing its tongue.

The glass itself answered with violence. Light ripped, a diamond‑white crack raced from its centre, and the mirror exploded outward in a bloom of splinters and sound. The force slammed Harry back, flinging him like a puppet; he felt the world tilt and then flip as the chamber he had left thundered into him.

Quirrell went with the blast, a heap of cloth and small bones thrown across the green light. The turban at the back of his head tore open in the impact and for the first time the other face showed in the open: pale, wiry, and terrible, eyes like burning coals. The scream that came from the throat under the turban was not one voice but two pitched together in a single, ragged howl. “What did you do, boy?!” one cried. “What about the Stone?!” the other screamed at the same time.

Harry was laughing before he understood that he was. It came out as a short, wild sound, half hysteria, half release, because something impossible had happened and the chest he had been dragging with him for months suddenly felt both heavier and emptier all at once. The coin had burned; the mirror had burst; the Stone was no longer where a thief could touch it.

Voldemort’s command snapped through Quirrell with a cold, reedy insistence: Kill him. The professor, small and trembling, pushed himself up as if urged by springs. He lurched forward, hands scrabbling for purchase on Harry’s robes. For a moment, the human in him seemed to act with a warped, desperate devotion; Quirrell’s fingers closed on Harry’s forearm and the man tried to drag the boy into a strangled embrace.

Harry did not pull away. If Quirrell meant to kill him, his mind cut through hot fear into a strange, steady clarity. He opened his arm as if to accept death, as if to make the thing that would take him feel the full weight of what it tried to take. The skin under Quirrell’s touch flashed white, then red; fire ran along his fingers. A smell of seared cloth and singed flesh hit the air. Quirrell gasped, voice breaking, and his hold stuttered.

But the thing at his back was impatient and ancient, it would not be denied by a mere burn. Quirrell continued to choke and claw at Harry, driven on by commands that were not his own. Heat licked along his body until his robes smouldered. With a last, awful keening, the man collapsed into a heap of ash and cinders that puffed into the air like grey snow.

Harry sucked in a lungful of air and tried to make sense of the sight: the twitching ruin where a man had been, the ash drifting in the green light. Relief cracked open in him like something that wanted to laugh; he tried to stand, and the world folded. Black smoke rolled up from the ashes, not ordinary smoke but a living shadow that pulled itself together into a wraith. It rose, coiling like a storm, the blackness shaped into a long, sinuous body. Two points flared hot and red inside it, eyes that burned like hate itself.

The smoke‑wraith plunged toward Harry with a speed that had nothing human about it. Heat and chill met in his chest as the scent of burnt things and old malice crowded his nose. The presence hit him like a hand across the face; the red points stared through him, and the room shrank to the whiteness behind his lids.

Harry’s knees buckled. A cold, spreading fog filled his vision and the last thing he felt before the world folded black was the hateful, bright sting of those red eyes as they took him.

Light returned in measured waves, like someone easing curtains open very carefully. Harry blinked into white linen and the faint, familiar smell of disinfectant and boiled cabbage. His skull throbbed where the wraith had struck; his throat was raw. Madam Pomfrey fussed at his side with brisk efficiency, tucking blankets, checking a pulse, muttering that children were far too reckless for their years.

“Mr Potter,” she said at last, voice brisk but relieved, “you’re awake. Headmaster will see you presently, but not yet, lie still.” She smoothed his hair as if he were a schoolboy’s and left, the door closing with a soft click that let the castle’s quieter noises creep in: a distant footfall, the faint hiss of rain on leaded panes.

He had time to remember in fragments: the torches leaning away from Death, the Stone’s hungry warmth, the mirror cracking like a bell, Quirrell’s cloth smoking, the ash puffing up like grey snow. The memory pressed warm behind his eyes, and with it a small, private thing: the knowledge in his hand that something had been hidden and taken away.

The footfall at the door changed its rhythm and then the headmaster himself was there, without his usual dramatic entrance. Dumbledore came in and sat on the edge of Harry’s bed as if he were a tired relative taking a chair, his hands folded and his eyes softer at the rims than Harry had ever seen. He looked… older, not by years but by a strain that sat under his voice.

“You did well, Harry,” Dumbledore said simply. His words were not loud, yet they carried the room. “You were very brave.”

Harry met the praise with a small, tired shrug. Brave did not feel like the right word for the way his chest still ached. “Why did you—” he began before he could stop himself. The question had been coiling all night. “Why set those traps inside a school? Why make the third floor into a battlefield? Why let him teach here for a year? It’s madness, sir. It’s not safe.”

Dumbledore’s face did not blanch. He sat very still for a long moment, then nodded as if he had been waiting for that exact word. “You are right to ask,” he said. “You are right to be angry. I owe you an explanation and an apology.”

Harry put his hands flat on the blanket and tried to steady the tremor in them. “It’s not just angry,” he said. “People could have died. You… you let him walk the corridors. You allowed him to stand in a classroom where children learn.” The shock in his voice surprised him; it had sharpened into accusation before he meant it to.

Dumbledore did not shrink from the force of it. “At first I believed him gone,” he said slowly. “There were whispers, things that did not fit, shadows that did not pass; I had doubts. But I did not believe, truly, that the man himself would place his foot in my school again. I had suspicion, Harry, but no proof. If I had known that he himself would be here in person, I would have done everything differently. I swear it.”

“You gave him Defence Against the Dark Arts for a year,” Harry said. The words tasted of incredulity. “That is—how could you let that happen?”

“For the best of reasons and the worst of failings,” Dumbledore answered. “I set protections because the Stone needed guarding. I asked that obstacles be placed to prevent a thief reaching it. But you are right to ask why such measures were set within school walls. At some point I stopped thinking merely as a headmaster and began to think as someone who had been fighting a war for a very long time. When you fight a war for too long you begin to measure everything by the threat that keeps visiting, and you forget some of the small duties that should never be traded for vigilance. That was my error.”

Harry’s mouth went thin. The idea that a headmaster might forget the small, obvious things because he had been busy with horrors made his anger flicker into something colder. “So, you accept it then. You accept that you put us at risk.”

Dumbledore’s eyes closed briefly, a quick, weary thing. When he opened them the old, quick humour had gone from their edges. “Yes,” he said. “I accept it. I accept full responsibility. I should have been thinking first of the children in my care, not only of how to keep some legend from falling into greedy hands. If I ever let myself become so convinced of an end that I trade away a child’s safety for it, then you have my word: remind me. I will not, I swear to you, put students at such risk again.”

There was steel under the apology now, not the cold of excuse but the hard tempering of regret. Harry felt some of the tautness in him loosen. He unfolded his hands and watched the dust drift, thinking of Ron on his narrow cot and Hermione insisting they should have been more careful. A single, short line from Dumbledore — “I will not put students at such risk again” — settled in him like a small promise.

Dumbledore shifted, and the conversation moved with the ease of two people who had been through things together, though hardly as equals. “Tell me about the Stone,” he said. “With the mirror wrecked and the room turned to ruin, no trace has been found. Do you know where it went?”

Harry could have told the truth: that the Stone had folded itself into a circle of light and into Death’s hand and that he had hidden it. He did not. The knowledge of it felt like a thing too private to lay out, a possession that might protect someone if kept unspoken. He kept his voice flat and measured.

“He didn’t get it,” Harry said. “Voldemort didn’t get the Stone. The mirror exploded and the Stone was destroyed in the blast.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment and then drew a slow breath, as if relief itself had weight. “If that is so,” he said quietly, “perhaps that is for the best. A thing that can cheat death is too dangerous to be left upon the earth. If it is truly gone, then temptation has one less place to set its foot.”

Harry let the lie sit between them. It was easier, somehow, to hear Dumbledore’s relief than to lay the truth on the bed like another burden. He watched the headmaster’s face and wondered how much guilt would settle into it in the months to come.

There came then the practical part of being a schoolboy in a world that had just fallen apart at the edge. “You must think of the summer,” Dumbledore said finally. “Sirius—well, he is in St Mungo’s and still recovering. He cannot take care of you as he heals. You will need to go to Privet Drive for the holidays. Your relatives have been informed. They will be at King’s Cross to collect you.”

The words hit like a small stone. Harry had expected it, had known it for a long while, and yet the certainty of it made his chest hollow out. He had thought, before everything fell apart, that some different arrangement might be made, that perhaps the people who knew something about him would offer a better home. Now the practicalities of hospitals and the rules of the world closed around him.

“You may write to him,” Dumbledore went on. “And Madam Pomfrey says you’ll be able to be released in time for the end‑of‑year feast. I will write to St Mungo’s about visits; the doctors might allow you to see Sirius every two weeks if the Dursleys can bring you.”

Harry pictured Aunt Petunia’s face and Uncle Vernon’s stout shoulders. He pictured them driving him, willingly, to a hospital. He shrugged, more to himself than to Dumbledore.

“They won’t drive me,” he said. The sentence was small and flat. Inside, he admitted a private truth: he preferred the Dursleys’ neglect to the watchful pity of someone like Sirius who would see all the damage and tend it. The Dursleys would leave him alone; Sirius would make him confront what happened.

Dumbledore’s face tightened in a way that was almost pain. “I am sorry, Harry,” he said after a moment. “I am sorry for how these falls upon you. I wish things could be different. If there is anything I can do—”

“You’ve done enough,” Harry said, more sharply than he intended. He regretted the tone the instant it left his mouth. He had not meant to be ungrateful; the feeling under his skin was complicated and not ready for simple mercies.

Dumbledore rose then, and for a moment stood in the doorway as if reluctant to leave. He reached out and laid a cool hand on Harry’s forehead, a gesture both fatherly and formal. “Take care of yourself,” he said softly. “There are things you must never do entirely alone. You have friends, Harry. Remember that.”

Madam Pomfrey bustled in at the sound of footsteps with a list of dos and don’ts and an encouraging promise that he would be up and about by the feast. Dumbledore’s shoulders were set differently as he left, as if the weight of choice had been moved and settled in his back.

When the door closed Harry let the day come back to him in a flood of fractured images: the mirror’s green light; the heat that had run through Quirrell’s fingers; the puff of ash; the wraith’s red points. The coin in his pocket pressed like a small, warm stone against his ribs. He folded the memory over and kept it silent. The infirmary stitched flesh and set bones; it did not, Harry thought, stitch the lines you draw through someone’s days after they make choices for you.

He lay there and thought of nothing and of everything. Outside, bells rang for some late hour; somewhere far-off, laughter trickled like water. The promise Dumbledore had made, the sworn vow not to put students at such risk again, fitted into his thoughts like a bracket that might hold future decisions steady. He decided, idly and not for the first time, that he would remind the headmaster of it if he ever forgot.

Before sleep finally tugged him under, he made himself a list of small things he would do over the summer: do his homework, write to Hermione and Ron, and correspond with Sirius at St Mungo’s about warding theory and whatever small, safe questions Harry could ask until he was able to learn in person, because there was, he told himself, no shame in learning what keeps others safe. The coin remained warm, and the knowledge of the Stone folded itself into the hollow of his private thoughts like a secret he had not yet decided to bring into the light.

He had not meant to sleep; the effort of not thinking seemed to be the only thing that quieted the ache behind his eyes. When sleep came it was not a falling but a slipping, as if the world had loosened its seams and let him pass through to somewhere edges were thin and meaning ran like ink.

He stood, or thought he stood, in a long room that smelled of old paper and iron. The walls were lined with lists of names written in cramped, steady hands; in the distance something rang that could have been a bell or the tolling of a vein. A hand came for him then, not slow with mercy nor quick with cruelty, only inevitable. It was the hand of a thing made of bone and the hush of winter, and about the wrist a band of silver threaded with a rune glowed so faintly that the sight made his skin prickle.

The hand did not touch him. It closed around a small bright object like a coin, and as it did the coin unmade itself into a spill of light and remade as metal and then as a band that held a single bead of deep red like a flame drowned in water. The rune on the band slid as if writing a name he almost understood and then could not hold. A single image stayed with him as the scene folded: the platform folding inward, like a bell struck beneath water. A voice that did not give explanations but weighed things laid itself across his chest like cold gold.

You kept what others let fall, it seemed to say. Avouch.

He woke with the metallic taste stubborn on his tongue and his fingers curled around something he did not expect to find. Where, a few hours before, his palm had pressed on a smooth silver disk there was now a narrow band of metal. For a second, half a second where the infirmary light seemed unreal, he thought he had not crossed back at all and that the long room of lists was only sleeping’s afterimage.

He sat up and turned the thing over in his hand.

It was a ring: plain silver, thin and near delicate, threaded on the inner curve with a hairline rune. Set low into the band was a stone that drank light rather than threw it back, a deep red that held flame like an ember in dark water. When he pressed the ring between finger and thumb it hummed, a small, thrumming vibration that slid up his arm and left a metallic tang at the back of his mouth.

Nausea came like a tide and the infirmary blurred; he had to lie back and breathe until the wave passed. The dream’s single instruction — Avouch — burned behind his eyes with an odd courtesy that tasted of iron and rain.

He did not slip the ring on. Instead, he folded his hand flat over his pocket as if holding the metal down under skin. Madam Pomfrey bustled in, all brisk comfort and scolding, and handed him a cup of something hot that tasted of lemon and sweetness. He smiled at her because such things were a small tether to ordinary life and kept his other hand pressed over the warm, unfamiliar weight.

“Lie still,” she said. “No sudden movements. You gave us quite a fright, you know.” She fussed with his blanket and rattled instructions about tonics and rest. He let her chatter settle at the edges of the room until she left, and when the door clicked, he let his fingers explore the ring again.

It was not merely different in shape. When he thought of Quirrell, of ash, of smoke twisting into the wraith, the ring made that small, warming tug in his pocket again, an echo of the fever he had felt in the mirror-chamber. He pressed his fingers to the metal and a flash of something unwanted, the smell of old fire and iron, the impression of cloth catching, ran through him and made the room tilt. He drew his hand away fast and lay with the domestic light pressing on his closed lids until the feeling dimmed.

Expectation is a teaching better learned slowly, the dream had seemed to say. If Death had used a ring in the vision to take the Stone, and if his coin and that ring had been linked across the mirror, then the change was not absurd. The coin had already adapted once, when it reached for the Cloak, the triangle in the Hallows mark had rounded, and his hands knew now that whatever this object was, it answered to patterns stronger than simple chance.

He kept the ring hidden in his pocket while Hermione arrived, breathless and sharp with questions. “Harry!” she said, then reached for his hand, notebook forgotten, and said only, “Tell me everything.” Her eyes searched his face as if she could lift answers out of skin. He gave her small, blunt sentences about the shape of the Mirror and the way the light had folded; he kept the rest shut tight.

Ron came later, cheeks freckled with the afterglow of worry and embarrassment and threw an arm over his shoulder as if to check he was still there. Ron’s shoulder stayed pressed to Harry’s as if to keep him anchored. They sat like that for a time, the three of them pressing against the fact that nothing had gone quite right and yet everything still held.

When Hermione and Ron left — Hermione promising to bring him homework, Ron promising to bring the sugar mice back in bulk — the infirmary felt suddenly larger and the ordinary plans he had made for the summer thin and fragile. He sat alone for a while, the ring warm against his hip, and then did what felt like a deliberate, private thing: he wrote.

He wrote to Sirius with care because he could not broach what had truly happened without alarming someone who did not know the whole story. Sirius, a Black by blood and training, might know old, obscure branches of magic or at least know who might. Harry kept his questions small and coded, the sort of curiosity a young man might ask without tipping a hand: Have you ever heard tell of charms that change how an object appears after it has... been touched by death? Are there books among your family that mention tokens altered by loss? He tucked a line asking only that Sirius advise which old texts or curators to ask, not to come himself. He wrote the rest in steadier strokes: that he was all right, that he would be released for the feast, that he was to go to Privet Drive for the summer. He hid the envelope in the cushion of the bed and, when sleep finally took him, let the ring sit warm under his fingers like a small and dangerous secret.

He woke later to the low clatter of voices and the smell of stew. The infirmary was cheerfully full of convalescents and low lamps; moonlight made the rune along the band look like a small river of ink. That night, when the first‑years had been tucked and the lamps turned low, Harry slipped from his bed and walked the short way to the window. He did not put on the ring, only held it between finger and thumb to feel its pulse.

A tug came then, small and insistent, as if something nearby wanted attention. The ring pulsed in his fingers; for an instant a picture flashed in the back of his eyes, a narrow stair, a lintel of stone, the smell of iron and the thin memory of a whisper. The flash left him with a cold certainty that the ring would call when things with death were near and that attendance would not be without consequence.

He slid the ring into his pocket; its weight made the fortnightly letters and summer chores feel suddenly trivial. The ring hummed with something that wanted questions, not essays, and the mystery of it made every ordinary plan feel trivial. He did not try the ring’s power that night, nor did he intend to until he understood more, but the simple notion of a summer spent writing and hiding from attention had been eclipsed.

Before he went to bed, he pulled out the letter to Sirius, smoothed the crease with care and, with hands that did not quite stop trembling, pushed it beneath his pillow where no one would think to look. The ring lay warm against his hip like a secret breathing.

He did not know if it had been given as thanks or taken as fee. He only knew that something had answered to what he had held out in the Mirror room and that answer had a weight and a voice and a habit of changing things. Avouch, the dream had said, and the word settled into him like a coin into a pocket: small, heavy, and impossible to forget.

The Great Hall shone like a held breath, banners stirring softly, house tables gleaming, the long candles bright as small moons. Students laughed and talked in every key of relief and exhaustion; plates clinked; Professor McGonagall wore her stern relief like a cloak. Dumbledore sat at the centre, as he always did, looking a little less like a man of triumph and more like a man who had been remembering things all night.

The feast went on with the pleasant clatter of things reassembling; highlights were eaten, speeches politely made, and then, as in every year, Professor McGonagall stood to announce the House Points. Tension threaded the room, Slytherin led by a comfortable margin, Gryffindor thin and behind, the usual murmurs of who would win.

Dumbledore rose to his feet then, very quietly, and the Hall cooled to whatever attention could be summoned from a thousand tired bodies. He spoke of bravery and of choices and of a certain courage shown by three students who had gone beyond expectation to defend the school. He spoke without flourish, simply and with that tempered tiredness about him, and then, in one small, delicate turn, awarded last minute points: one by one for Hermione’s quick thinking, for Ron’s sacrifice, for Harry’s willingness to face danger alone.

Gryffindor shot up the board.

Slytherin’s table went very still. The green of victory washed out as the numbers slid away and Gryffindor’s total rose to a close, unexpected lead. A ripple, not quite stunned, not quite angry, moved along their bench. Behind Harry, Ron whooped and clapped, Hermione’s face crumpled with an expression near to dismay and gratitude at once. The Gryffindors burst, loud and messy and very human.

When the clapping had died down and the House Cup was accepted in the cheeriest, most clinging fashion by a humming Gryffindor table, Harry found the applause oddly hollow. He watched Dumbledore’s hand rest on the Cup for a moment too long, like a man steadying himself, and he felt an odd pang: that the timing of the points, at the very end and in a mocking reversal, did not feel purely ceremonial. It felt political, it felt final, and it felt like a gesture made to be seen rather than quietly logged.

Hermione leaned close and spoke in a voice that was both small and sharp. “That was… poor taste,” she said. “If Dumbledore had intended it, he had a week. He could have given us points quietly. Doing it on the stage makes it a spectacle.”

“You’d have liked Slytherin to win?” Ron asked, half incredulous, half teasing.

“No, but this… publicly robbing them at the last second, it deepens things, Ron. It makes a chasm wider. We can’t pretend gestures like that don’t echo.”

Harry listened and felt the truth of it. The House Cup in his hands was warm and bright; it tasted of triumph but left a bitter afternote. He did not voice the thought that perhaps Dumbledore had been trying to fix something immediate, or that a man weighed by war and fear might make choices that read poorly in a hall of children. Instead, he let the unease sit like a small stone between them.

After the speeches and the singing and the last slices of pudding, robes were packed and trunks rolled; farewells were said with hugs that felt both hurried and earnest. The next morning the station was busy and slobbery with students and trunks and the smell of platform steam.

They found a compartment together as always, the square of space on the train temporarily their private world. Ron flopped down opposite Harry and began making holiday plans in the expansive, optimistic way he reserved for breaks. “I’ll get Dad to send an owl, yeah? I’ll sort it — you’ll come to the Burrow as soon as we can, Harry. Mum’ll make you dinner that isn’t boiled to death.”

Harry managed a smile. “Thanks, Ron.” He believed Ron would try; the Burrow promised something like normalcy. He did not say that his summer would not be ordinary.

Hermione folded a neat scrap of parchment and slid it across the table. She tapped the single sketch of the box and the thin runes on its lid. “Final stitch here,” she said. “We’ve practised it enough.”

“So, we do it when Malfoy slips it?” Ron prompted.

“You make the scene,” Hermione answered, looking at Ron; “knock a pile of books, anything loud. Harry, you reach in, take the diary, drop it into the box I hold open. I shut it and hide it out of sight. Quick hands. No fuss.”

They ran the tiny signals once, Ron’s cough, Hermione’s tiny lift of the hand, Harry’s curt nod, until the motions lived in their fingers. As Ron mimed the slip and Hermione closed her imagined palm over the chest, something sour tightened in Harry’s gut. The ring in his pocket grew unnaturally cold and gave a single, warning throb that made the hairs on his arm stand up. He swallowed the bad feeling and said nothing; the plan did not need another voice.

They crowded down from the carriage into the surge of trunks and voices and found the family gate where parents waited in small knots. Ron shouldered forward, all proud blur and motion.

“Mum! Dad! This is Harry,” he announced, dragging Harry by the sleeve.

Mr Weasley’s face went red with pleasure. He gripped Harry’s hand with both of his as if sealing a promise. “Good to see you, son,” he said, enthusiasm spilling from him. “How are you keeping?”

Mrs Weasley’s relief was immediate and loud: she kissed Harry on the cheek and fussed over him, murmuring something about getting him a proper roast and worrying over whether he’d had enough to eat. Her welcome felt like warmth put into the world.

Hermione’s parents stood a little apart, formal and careful at first. Mr Granger offered a polite handshake that was precise and lonely with caution; Mrs Granger inspected Hermione’s trunk with brisk efficiency. They hovered on the edge of reserve until the Weasleys’ easy kindness folded around them, and then, under that neighbourly warmth, they thawed. Mrs Granger smiled, a little uncertain, but it reached her eyes; Mr Granger’s posture relaxed by degrees as he met Arthur Weasley’s ready, bright chatter. The muggles’ stiffness eased into something like gratitude.

Then the Dursleys came through, a kind of rude impatience. Aunt Petunia’s smile was tight and carefully varnished; Uncle Vernon’s jaw set in that look of officious superiority he cultivated for public encounters. Arthur, polite as ever, stepped forward with his hand extended. “Excuse me… are you Harry’s relatives? I don’t believe we’ve—” he began.

Vernon cut him off with a look that said he considered the whole subject distasteful. “Yes, yes — unfortunately. This is our nephew,” he said, his tone flat and dismissive as if Harry were a bit of stuck gum to be scraped off a shoe. He glanced at Harry once, openly annoyed, and barked, “Boy, come along. We haven’t all day.”

Aunt Petunia pursed her lips toward Harry as if she might have preferred not to speak at all. “You know the rules,” she said, loud enough for those nearby to hear. “No nonsense. You’ll come with us, and you’ll behave.”

They were brusque, hurried, and openly uncomfortable among a crowd that smelled of magic and laughter. Vernon’s demeanour was pinched and officious, a man determined that everything be kept exactly as he pleased; Petunia’s face was a tight, practiced blank meant to make Harry feel invisible. Without another moment they started to move away, leaving the cluster of parents and friends behind as if Harry were a detail to be swept up.

Mr Weasley’s smile faltered; Mrs Weasley’s hand tightened on his sleeve. Mr and Mrs Granger exchanged a quick, worried look with the Weasleys, a shared, wordless alarm at how the Dursleys spoke to the boy. Their faces said something grown‑up and precise: this was not kindness, and they did not like it.

Harry managed a small laugh and waved both off. “It’s all right,” he said quickly, because he knew the look and knew how it landed, because he had spent eleven years learning how to make small apologies for other people’s manners. “I’m used to it.” His voice kept a calm he did not entirely feel.

Hermione hugged him harder than she had in the carriage. “Write to us,” she said, voice trembling only a little. “If anything happens — anything — you write at once.”

“Don’t be daft about the Dursleys,” Ron said, grinning with the fierce comfort of a friend who meant it.

Harry hugged them both back, then let go. “I’ll write,” he promised, louder this time, and he meant it. He shouldered his trunk and followed the Dursleys’ brisk stride, their heels clipping the pavement like a metronome urging him onward.

As he walked after them, he felt the plan folded in his trunk and the memory of the rehearsal on the train, Ron’s fake stumble, Hermione’s hidden hands, the quick snap of the lid. It was a clean plan; they had practiced the motions until they were second nature. But the rehearsal had left him with a bad, sour feeling, the sort of warning that sits under the tongue and tastes of trouble. He did not voice it. He did not add a new burden to their voices and promises.

He caught one more look from Mr Weasley and from Mrs Granger, the same worried glance they'd shared at the gate, and it sat inside him like a small pebble. He tucked the feeling away and hurried on. As the Dursleys' car door shut behind him, Harry felt the warning like a hand at his throat and knew, with a cold clarity, that nothing about this summer would go as they had planned.

End of book 1