"Ron."
Someone was shaking him.
"Ron, come on. Wake up, sleepyhead."
Ron Weasley groaned and buried his face deeper into the pillow. But the voice—bright and persistent—kept nudging at his foggy brain. With a tired sigh, he blinked himself awake and squinted against the soft morning light pouring in through the dormitory windows.
He rubbed his eyes and sat up, hair sticking out in every direction. The golden sunlight danced across the thick stone walls and the embroidered Hufflepuff banners above his bed, but Ron barely noticed.
"What time is it?" he mumbled, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet sank into the warm carpet, and he dragged himself toward the bathroom, muttering under his breath. The cold splash of water on his face didn't do much to shake the weight pressing on his chest.
By the time he returned, the dorm was empty.
Yawning, Ron shuffled down into the Hufflepuff common room. It was quiet, peaceful—too peaceful. The room glowed with flickering firelight and golden sunbeams that danced through ivy-covered windows. Ferns waved gently in their enchanted pots, and the scent of fresh earth and warm wood filled the air.
Normally, the comfort of the room would soothe him. Not today.
"Morning, Ron!" called a voice from the fireplace.
Cedric Diggory sat with his feet propped on a footstool, a book in one hand, his dark hair tousled like he'd been up for hours. His easy smile and sharp grey eyes were as polished as ever.
Ron gave a half-hearted wave and sank into the armchair across from him. "Morning," he said around another yawn.
Cedric raised an eyebrow. "Late night?"
Ron shrugged. "Something like that."
Cedric closed his book, his tone turning gentle. "Still thinking about the tournament?"
Ron didn't answer right away. He stared at the fire instead, watching the flames twist and curl. They looked at how he felt—restless.
"You know why the headmaster chose you, right?" Cedric said, leaning forward. "You're the top Hufflepuff. You wouldn't have been picked if you weren't ready."
Ron scoffed under his breath. "You make it sound so easy."
"It's not easy," Cedric said. "But you've got the brains, the heart. You just need to believe it."
Ron looked away. The weight of expectation pressed on him like a stone. "Maybe if I win… maybe then they'll stop looking at me like I'm the mistake."
Cedric frowned. "Who?"
"My family," Ron muttered. "They all ended up in Gryffindor. I was supposed to, too. Instead, I ended up here. And ever since, it's like… like I'm not really one of them anymore. Not properly."
Cedric's voice was quiet. "That's not fair."
"No, it's not." Ron's throat tightened. "But it's how it is."
He hesitated, then added, "Ginny's a champion too. Gryffindor's golden girl. She'll outshine me just by existing."
Cedric chuckled softly. "Siblings compete. It's what they do. Doesn't mean you're not both brilliant in your own ways."
Ron's jaw tightened. "Yeah, but she's got them behind her. All of them. And me? I've got people wondering how I even ended up in Hufflepuff, like it's some sort of punishment."
Cedric's smile faded. "You know that's not true."
Ron shook his head. "Sometimes I think if I can just win this, maybe I'll finally be seen. Not just the odd one out. Not just the Weasley in the wrong house."
Cedric didn't interrupt. He let Ron talk, the way few people ever did.
"And then there's Granger and Potter," Ron added bitterly. "Granger's brilliant—always has the right answer, always one step ahead. And Potter…"
Cedric leaned back. "You don't like him."
Ron let out a short, humourless laugh. "He calls me a blood traitor. Just because I don't buy into all that pureblood superiority garbage. He acts like he's better than everyone, and people let him."
Cedric nodded. "You're not the first to say that."
"I don't care if he thinks he's better," Ron said, heat rising in his voice. "He doesn't get to decide who's worth something. I'm going to prove I belong here. All of us are."
Cedric's grin returned. "Now that's the attitude I like. Channel that fire. Use it."
Ron blinked, surprised by the strength in his own voice. Maybe he needed to hear himself say it.
Cedric stood and stretched. "Come on. Let's get some food in you. You can't take on the world on an empty stomach."
Ron hesitated, then rose to follow. The warmth of the common room wrapped around him again, not enough to banish the doubts completely—but enough to make them quiet for a little while.
He walked beside Cedric toward the exit, where laughter drifted in from the hallway. He didn't know what the tournament would bring. But for the first time in a while, he felt like he might actually stand a chance.
The Great Hall buzzed with the usual morning commotion—clinking cutlery, chatter rising like birdsong, owls swooping overhead to deliver the morning post. The enchanted ceiling mirrored a clear blue sky streaked with light clouds, sunlight spilling across the long tables. Laughter rang out, toast was passed around, and parchment rustled as students unfolded letters and newspapers.
But for Hermione Granger, everything else faded into background noise.
She sat at the Ravenclaw table, a fresh copy of the Daily Prophet trembling slightly in her hands. Her heart beat fast beneath her school robes. The morning edition held more than just news today—it held confirmation. And sure enough, halfway down the front page, there it was.
Hogwarts House Champions Announced
Ravenclaw: Hermione Granger
Her breath caught. The words glowed like fire on the page. She blinked once, twice, then reread the line, as if it might vanish.
She'd done it. She'd really been chosen.
Before she could process the whirlwind of emotion building inside her—pride, anxiety, disbelief—laughter erupted behind her.
Loud. Mocking. Familiar.
"Honestly," came Harry Potter's voice, dripping with contempt, "as if any of them stand a chance in the next challenge."
Draco Malfoy chuckled beside him. "We all know who the real Hogwarts champion is. The rest are just filler."
Hermione stiffened. Her knuckles whitened around the paper.
She turned slowly to see them passing behind her—Harry and Draco, both smirking, loud enough to make sure she heard every word.
"Imagine letting Mudbloods and blood traitors compete," Harry added, tossing her a pointed glare as they made their way to the Slytherin table. "Dumbledore really is slipping."
A few Slytherins nearby laughed, eager to echo the cruelty.
Hermione's face burnt. She clenched her jaw, grabbed her goblet of pumpkin juice, and took a long, angry gulp. The liquid sloshed down her chin, but she didn't bother wiping it. Her eyes were locked on the table, the joy she'd felt a moment ago curdling into frustration.
Across from her, Luna Lovegood watched calmly, her expression unreadable.
"They're teasing you again," she said, her voice soft and faraway, as if she were discussing the weather.
Hermione exhaled sharply. "So childish," she muttered. "Potter acts like he's the gift of the century just because of his name. His parents must be thrilled to have raised such a smug, entitled—"
"If his parents hadn't surrounded themselves with people like the Malfoys and Lestranges," Luna said, "he might've turned out more… pleasant."
Hermione managed a hollow laugh. "At this point, I'd rather talk to the giant squid than deal with his attitude."
Luna tilted her head. "Still, you're the one who got picked. That says something. You're brilliant, Hermione. You'll win."
Hermione's lips tugged into a reluctant smile. "Thanks. I don't have much of a choice, do I?"
Her gaze drifted back to the Slytherin table, where Harry lounged in the middle of his entourage, basking in attention like he'd already won. She bristled.
"He's got enough people feeding his ego. Another title will just inflate it more. I'm sick of seeing his name everywhere."
The Daily Prophet only fanned the flames. His name popped up multiple times throughout the article—highlighting his skill, pedigree, and reputation. As if the rest of them barely mattered.
With a sharp flick of her wrist, Hermione crumpled the paper and shoved it aside.
Luna blinked. "Bad news?"
"It's all rubbish," Hermione snapped. "Same old propaganda—blood status, house rivalries. It's like they're allergic to actual journalism."
Before Luna could answer, another voice sliced through the air.
"I doubt you even understand blood status, Granger."
Hermione froze.
She stood, slowly, glaring at the figure behind her.
"Do you make it a habit to eavesdrop, Potter," she asked coldly, "or is it just your default personality?"
Harry shrugged, as if the insult barely registered. "Just thought I'd help you avoid further embarrassment. You clearly don't grasp the basics. Blood matters, Granger. Not everyone gets that."
Hermione's nostrils flared. "What I grasp is that your entire belief system is a pile of rotting dung wrapped in expensive robes."
Around them, the hall had gone quiet—students pausing mid-bite to watch.
Harry smirked. "Of course you'd say that. I mean, how could you understand? You didn't grow up with magic. Your parents couldn't teach you the difference between a Squib and a—"
He didn't finish.
Because Hermione's wand was already in her hand.
The moment the insult about her parents hit the air, something inside her snapped. The grief, the injustice, the endless uphill climb—all of it burst to the surface.
Gasps rippled through the Hall.
"You say one more word about my family," she hissed, wand raised, "and I swear, Potter, you'll spend the rest of the term croaking like a toad."
Harry's smirk faltered for a moment—but just a moment. "Touchy," he said.
But Hermione didn't lower her wand. She didn't blink.
She didn't need to hex him. Not now. Not when everyone was watching and seeing him for what he truly was.
A bully with a legacy. Nothing more.
"Enough, Hermione."
The words didn't shout or scold—they simply landed, quiet and firm, cutting through the tension like a steadying hand. Ginny Weasley stepped into the circle of conflict, her presence as unmistakable as the flicker of red hair that shimmered like flame in the morning sun.
Her voice, warm but edged with concern, held just enough weight to make both Hermione and Harry pause. "Hello, Harry… Hermione. What's going on? Why's your wand out?"
Hermione lowered her wand by an inch, though her chest still heaved with fury. Harry didn't look up—just stared at the floor like he might find some defence hidden in the flagstones.
"Nothing," he muttered, his voice flat, shoulders tense beneath the green-trimmed black of his Slytherin robes.
Hermione let out a bitter laugh. "Yes, nothing," she echoed sharply. "Nothing except Potter running his mouth again."
Ginny's brow creased. She took a step closer, placing herself between them as subtly as she could. "You shouldn't be fighting," she said gently. "We're all champions of Hogwarts now—different houses, sure, but we're on the same side. This isn't supposed to turn us into enemies."
Hermione's lips curled into a tight smirk. "Harry's never been good at unity, Ginny. He prefers to divide and conquer."
At that, Harry finally looked up, green eyes flashing. "Unity? You just pulled a wand on me."
"Because you insulted my parents," Hermione shot back, her voice rising. "You dragged them into this—like it was nothing. Like they're just some weakness to mock."
The mask of arrogance Harry wore cracked slightly, revealing something more brittle beneath. But then, as if trying to regain control, he muttered, "Well. It's not like they can defend themselves. They're—"
He didn't get the chance to finish.
The sharp crack of skin against skin echoed across the Great Hall.
Hermione's fist had landed squarely on Harry's jaw, snapping his head to the side. Every student within earshot froze—mouths agape, forks halfway to mouths, eyes wide as the atmosphere turned electric.
Harry stumbled back a step, stunned. Slytherins rose instinctively, some moving forward protectively, while others watched with amused delight.
Ginny gasped, eyes darting between them. Her heart hammered in her chest—she'd seen them argue a hundred times, but this was different. This wasn't the usual clashing of egos. This was personal. Deep. Wounding.
Hermione's hand still trembled at her side, her wand forgotten. Her face was flushed, eyes blazing. "Say that again," she hissed, her voice low and lethal, "and I swear I'll do more than bruise your pride."
Then she turned, robes swirling behind her as she stalked out of the hall. She didn't look back.
A breathless hush lingered in her absence.
Ginny stood frozen, her thoughts spiralling. For a second, she thought she might follow—but her legs wouldn't move.
"Are you alright?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
"I'm perfectly fine," Harry snapped, spitting the words like venom. He pressed a hand to his jaw; his pride was clearly stung more than anything else.
Ginny reached out instinctively, offering her hand to help him, but the look he gave her was cold enough to stop her mid-motion. His gaze flicked up to her face with something like disbelief, then bitterness.
"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" He muttered. The tone wasn't angry—it was dismissive, laced with contempt, like her concern was an insult.
Her hand dropped. Her mouth parted, stunned.
"There's no need to be cruel," she said quietly. "I was just trying to help."
But Harry had already turned away.
He didn't answer, didn't glance back—just walked off toward the Slytherin table with stiff, angry strides. A few of his housemates reached out, patting him on the back, whispering questions and smirking comments.
Ginny stood alone amid the shifting crowd. Around her, the Great Hall slowly returned to its usual din, but the sound felt distant, muffled—like she was watching the world through glass.
She bit the inside of her cheek and blinked hard against the prickle in her eyes. She wasn't sure what stung more: Harry's cruelty or the fact that it still had the power to hurt.
Ginny turned slowly, walking away from the hall's centre like someone waking from a bad dream. Her heart felt heavy, as if it had absorbed every unspoken word between them.
Ginny sat quietly at the Gryffindor table, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the grain of the worn wooden bench beneath her. Her eyes followed Ron as he crossed to the Hufflepuff table, his gait stiff with frustration, lips pressed into a determined scowl. He looked as though he were carrying the weight of the world on his back—or at least the weight of his own expectations.
She sighed, lost in the sight of him, until a voice nudged her back to the present.
"Hello."
It was soft but clear, threaded with a familiar warmth. Ginny blinked and turned to find Cedric settling onto the bench beside her. There was something effortlessly kind about the way he smiled—like he wasn't just glad to see her but genuinely wanted to understand her.
"Oh—hi, Cedric." The words came out more flustered than intended, and she quickly looked down at her plate. Her heart gave a traitorous flutter at his nearness, and she cursed it for being so obvious. They'd spoken before, sure, but this time the air between them felt… different. Taut with something unspoken.
"Every time I see a Weasley," Cedric said, his tone half-joking but not unkind, "you all seem so weighed down. What's troubling you this time?"
Ginny stiffened at the question. That familiar knot in her chest twisted tighter. She knew the answer—of course she did—but she wasn't about to give it up so easily.
"Nothing's wrong," she said quickly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "I'm fine."
It was a lie, and it landed in her mouth like lead.
She glanced sideways at Ron again, hoping the topic would shift. "Is he alright?" she asked, quieter this time.
Cedric nodded, though a crease formed between his brows. "He's alright. Just—"
"Worried about the challenge later?" She cut in, her voice sharper than she meant it to be. "He's desperate to prove himself, huh?" The bitterness clung to the edges of her words like frost. "So desperate."
There was a pause. Cedric's gaze didn't waver, but his expression softened into something more thoughtful—gentler.
"I understand his desperation," he said at last, releasing a breath that fogged faintly in the morning chill of the hall. "And I don't think it's a bad thing. He's trying—really trying—to stand tall in his own right. Being a house champion isn't just about glory. It's about courage."
Ginny looked down, pushing scrambled eggs around her plate with the tines of her fork. His words scratched against something tender inside her.
"Right," she muttered. "So it matters. But he still thinks we don't see it. That I don't see it."
Cedric didn't reply immediately. When he did, his voice was quieter—more deliberate. "I thought you believed in unity. Between houses. Between people." He glanced at her, his brown eyes steady. "I overheard your talk with Potter and Granger. Why not give your brother the same support?"
That stung.
Ginny's fingers clenched subtly around her fork. "It's not that simple."
Cedric didn't press her, but the silence that followed was heavy with unsaid things. She could feel his gaze linger on her, not with judgement, but with a kind of quiet plea—hoping she might say more, hoping she might let herself be honest.
But she didn't.
She shrugged, as if that might dissolve the conversation entirely.
He didn't sigh or scold, only offered her a last, gentle reminder. "Please… just consider it. You could be what helps him hold everything together."
And then he rose, nodding once before moving off toward Ron. His stride was unhurried but purposeful, like someone who had done what he could and left the rest in someone else's hands.
Ginny sat still in the wake of his absence, the noise of the Great Hall washing over her in waves—the scrape of cutlery, the rustle of parchment, the low hum of chatter that didn't quite touch her.
She stared down at her plate, no longer hungry.
The knot in her chest hadn't loosened—but it had shifted. And that was enough to make her wonder whether Cedric's words might follow her long after the hall had emptied.
The morning sun spilt like molten gold through the towering windows of the castle, gilding the cold stone walls with a soft warmth that did little to ease the unease nestled in the chests of the four students assembled beneath the stern gaze of the stone gargoyle. Birds chirped somewhere outside, oblivious to the nervous energy pooling in the corridor. Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny stood shoulder to shoulder, their expressions drawn tight, each lost in a tangle of thoughts they didn't dare voice aloud.
The low whirring of stone signalled movement, and within moments, the spiral staircase unfurled to reveal Albus Dumbledore descending with the grace of someone who'd lived a hundred lifetimes and remembered each one fondly. His robes caught the light like flowing starlight, and as always, his eyes shone with that peculiar mix of wisdom and whimsy. But today, there was something deeper in them. Something guarded.
"Good morning," Dumbledore said, voice low and musical, and as he gestured for them to follow, it struck Harry how heavy the air had become—thick with anticipation.
They followed in a line, footsteps echoing softly against the flagstones as they passed familiar doors and familiar shadows. But soon, the path veered into unfamiliar territory—twisting down corridors they'd never seen mapped. The hall narrowed, the windows thinned, until they stood at what seemed like a solid dead end.
Confusion flickered between them.
Then Dumbledore turned, his face half in shadow, half bathed in sunlight, giving him the quality of a ghost suspended between worlds. "Behind you lies the world you know," he said, his voice wrapping around them like a spell. "Ahead… something quite different."
As if summoned by his words, a door materialised from the very stone—tall, ancient, and richly carved, as though it had been waiting for centuries to be noticed.
Harry stared at it, heart thudding. He could feel the familiar press of expectations at his back. The letters from anxious parents still lingered in his thoughts—those desperate, angry voices questioning his place, his bloodline, and his right to represent Hogwarts. He swallowed hard, the invisible crown of scrutiny tightening around his temples.
"The challenges inside this room are not merely physical," Dumbledore said, approaching the door. "They will test your perceptions, your choices—your willingness to look inward. You may fail. You may learn. But you must enter with your eyes open."
His gaze swept over them—lingering on Hermione's narrowed eyes, on Ron's furrowed brow, on Ginny's determined chin, and finally, on Harry. There was no accusation in his eyes. Only expectation—and, somehow, hope.
With a nod that signalled both permission and farewell, Dumbledore stepped back.
Harry took a breath. So did the others.
Together, they stepped forward.
The room greeted them not with fanfare but silence. Thick, velvet darkness pressed in around them, swallowing their outlines and softening their breaths. It was disorienting—no sounds but their own feet, no light but the dull glow of the opening behind them, which slowly closed, snuffing out the world beyond.
Then—silver smoke, curling upward like a summoned Patronus. The room lit in sudden bursts as the fog parted to reveal a curious scene: a long table, haphazardly littered with goblets, vials, and cauldrons. But in the centre—set apart as if to be worshipped—rested a single golden vial, its contents catching the light in slow, hypnotic ripples.
Ginny stepped forward, eyes narrowing in interest. "Are we… brewing something?" she asked, tilting her head.
Hermione didn't answer right away. Her arms folded, suspicion radiating from every line of her body. "It's too obvious," she said, more to herself than to the others. "This is bait. It's designed to look like a test of skill—but it's a test of something else."
Before Ginny could respond, a dense plume of smoke erupted behind the table with a loud hiss. Startled, the four backed away, wands half-raised, as three figures began to emerge from the haze.
They were unfamiliar—strangers conjured like spectres. One was an elderly woman in plain robes, her hair tied back tightly, a wooden wand clutched firmly in her weathered hand. Her posture was dignified, but her presence was quietly defiant.
Harry leaned toward Ron, voice low and sharp. "Do you think she's Muggle-born?"
Ron's frown deepened as he shot him a sideways glance. "Does it matter?" he muttered, his tone tight with irritation. "You sound like Malfoy."
Harry's face twitched, but he said nothing.
The woman remained silent, her gaze sweeping over them with something like scrutiny—though whether she was a friend or a challenge, it was impossible to tell.
And so they stood there, suspended in the moment between decision and consequence, four champions staring down the first riddle in a room built not just to test their magic—but the content of their character.
In the centre stood another figure locked in the throes of transformation—a grotesque distortion of flesh and bone, muscles writhing beneath stretched skin, joints snapping into unnatural places. The werewolf's agony painted the air with an unspoken scream, and Hermione staggered back, one hand instinctively covering her mouth.
"That's awful," she whispered, her voice brittle, nausea prickling at the back of her throat.
Ginny's face had gone pale. "That's so disturbing," she muttered, arms folded tightly across her chest as if to shield herself from the sight.
Harry's expression remained unmoved. He tilted his head slightly, almost intrigued. "What did you expect?" he said flatly. "That's what a werewolf transformation looks like."
"I know that," Hermione snapped, more stung by his indifference than his words. Her eyes flicked toward the third figure now fully revealed: a gaunt, elderly man in a faded white shirt, grey stripes barely visible across its stained surface. His eyes were hollow, his spirit worn thin by time and something far darker.
"Azkaban prisoner," Harry said under his breath. His gaze lingered, unwavering.
Just then, the chamber pulsed. More wisps of smoke curled upward, delicate as lace, forming elegant letters in midair. A riddle unfurled:
Three humans stand before you
Each of their lives will soon undo
A bottle of cure ready to unscrew
To whom shall you give it to?
There was a moment of stunned silence as the lines faded, the rhyme echoing in their minds like the toll of a bell.
"So," Ginny murmured, brow furrowed, "it's a choice."
"Obviously," Harry said coolly, stepping forward. "One cure. One chance. The rest… well."
His eyes drifted from the werewolf to the Muggle-born witch still cloaked in silence, then back to the prisoner. His decision, it seemed, had already been made.
Ron folded his arms. "Let me guess—you're choosing the prisoner."
Harry didn't flinch. "Of course."
"Of course?" Hermione said sharply, incredulous. "He's the one you think deserves it most?"
Harry shrugged. "The other two? One's a half-breed. The other—" his eyes cut toward the witch "—is Muggle-born. Don't pretend that doesn't mean something."
"That's disgusting," Ginny said, her voice trembling. "You don't even know them."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "It's called strategy. We were told to make a choice, and I made mine. There's no right or wrong here. Just consequences."
"But you are letting your biases cloud your judgement," Hermione said, echoing Dumbledore's words with quiet fury.
Harry's lip curled into something between a grin and a sneer. "Then maybe you should be quicker with your own decision. This isn't about feelings. It's about action."
Before anyone could stop him, Harry snatched the vial from its pedestal, its golden contents glinting as he marched toward the prisoner. The man's eyes widened—not with hope, but confusion. Still, he drank, the potion slipping down his throat like sunlight swallowed in shadow.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Nothing happened.
No radiant glow. No transformation. The prisoner remained exactly as he had been—except for the slow exhale of relief that left his lips, soft and uncertain.
Then, with a quiet pulse, the vial reappeared on the pedestal, refilled.
Hermione stared. "It—reset?"
Ron looked from the man to Harry, his face twisted in disbelief. "What did you do?"
Harry turned, his expression calm, almost amused. "Exactly what I was supposed to."
"You just gave that man a chance based on nothing but your prejudice!" Ginny hissed.
Harry's shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Someone had to choose. And you lot were too busy moralising."
He strode toward the far door—a dark archway that hadn't been there before, half-concealed in shadow. It swung open as he approached, inviting, indifferent.
Ron's hand shot out. "Wait—how do you know it'll let you through?"
Harry paused, just briefly. "Maybe because I acted. Maybe because I was right."
Without another word, he stepped into the dark.
The door closed behind him with a whisper, sealing the space like a breath held too long.
Hermione was the first to break the silence. "I didn't think it would open unless we made the right choice."
"Maybe that was the right choice," Ginny said, unsure.
"Or maybe this test is about something else entirely," Ron muttered, running a hand through his hair. "We're supposed to doubt ourselves. That's the point, isn't it? There's no clear answer. Just instinct."
Hermione's arms tightened across her chest. "But Dumbledore said to be careful. That our perception defines the path. What if we're already failing?"
They looked again at the figures still waiting—silent, suspended. The vial pulsed quietly. The next choice had yet to be made.
Suddenly, Ginny took the vial; it shimmered like a drop of captured sunlight, trembling slightly between her fingers. She stepped forward with quiet conviction; the weight of decision pressed into every movement. "I suppose I'll see you on the other side," she said, her voice light but resolute. Her smile flickered—not false, but tempered with nerves—and she extended the potion to the werewolf.
He accepted it silently, the faintest nod of gratitude passing between them. And without waiting for anyone to second-guess her choice, Ginny turned, her red hair catching the light like a banner, and stepped through the same door Harry had vanished behind.
It closed with a soft click, sealing the moment like wax on a letter.
The chamber grew still again. Only two remained.
Ron shifted uneasily, the silence settling over him like fog. Beside him, Hermione stood still, arms crossed, her face unreadable beneath the veil of thought.
"You can go first, Ron," she said, her voice even, though something flickered behind her eyes—worry, perhaps, or simply the need to control the pace of what was coming.
Ron hesitated, looking toward the door as if it might breathe or speak. "I can wait," he said, his tone uncertain but kind. "You go ahead."
She shook her head once. "No. I'll go last."
Their eyes locked, a silent conversation passing between them—trust laced with the fear of what might lie ahead.
"You sure about this?" he asked, stepping slightly closer. "I mean, the others seemed alright. It didn't look… too bad."
Hermione drew in a slow breath. "We don't know that. And besides…" Her voice dropped slightly. "Someone needs to be deliberate. This isn't a game."
Ron nodded reluctantly, and after a lingering moment, stepped toward the final figure—the elderly woman who stood with the air of someone who had seen lifetimes pass. Her lined face softened as he approached. Without a word, he handed her the vial. She accepted it with a small, knowing smile.
That look settled something in him.
With a final glance over his shoulder, Ron squared his shoulders and stepped through the door. Gone.
And Hermione was alone.
The silence bloomed around her, vast and reverent. For a moment, she didn't move. Just breathed.
Three figures remained before her, all still waiting: the weathered prisoner, the timid witch with trembling hands, and the half-transformed creature now frozen mid-motion, eyes full of pain and something else—hope, maybe.
She stepped forward, the soles of her shoes whispering against the stone. Her heart drummed heavily, the burden of solitude pressing into her chest.
Dumbledore's voice echoed distantly in her mind: They will test your perceptions, your choices—your willingness to look inward. You may fail. You may learn. But you must enter with your eyes open.
She stared at the table, at the mess of tarnished cauldrons and scattered goblets, searching for order in chaos. "This can't just be symbolic," she murmured to herself, fingertips brushing one of the chalices. "There's intention here."
Her eyes dropped to the vial in her hand. The golden potion caught the light, warm and unassuming, yet heavy with consequence. She stared at it, recalling the riddle, the silence of the room, and the decisions made by those before her.
And then, a thought took root—what if they'd all misunderstood?
What if the challenge was never about one life?
Slowly, methodically, Hermione began to pour.
She divided the potion between three goblets, measuring carefully, her hands steady despite the tremor building in her spine. One for each. She carried them forward—first to the prisoner, then to the Muggle-born girl, then to the creature locked in transformation. Each accepted the offering with solemn eyes and drank.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—clarity shattered.
Pain erupted behind Hermione's eyes, white-hot and searing. She stumbled, gasping as her vision fractured. The chamber dissolved. Images—too vivid to be dreams—flooded her mind.
Laughter by the sea. Wind-whipped hair. She saw herself, Ron, Ginny, and Harry—different, together. A cottage nestled by the cliffs. A moment of peace carved from chaos. A warmth that pierced through years of mistrust.
Then the scene shifted—flickered—and she saw herself again, standing beside Ron and Ginny, a heavy tome in their hands titled Anima. Behind them, Harry lay pale and still in a bed, his chest rising weakly. Urgency hummed in their voices, though the words slipped past like water over stone.
Were these memories? Prophecies? Possibilities?
Her breath came in shallow gasps. These weren't just visions—they were truths, refracted through time. Each one a thread in the tapestry of a bond that ran deeper than blood.
The potion had revealed not consequence, but connection.
Hermione blinked, and the chamber reformed around her, but it was different now—distant, like a memory itself.
Before her stood a door, slightly ajar, carved in dark wood and lit by unseen light. No figure beckoned. No riddle awaited.
Only choice.
She hesitated for one heartbeat, then stepped forward.
The threshold buzzed beneath her fingertips as she crossed it, and the air shimmered—an electric pulse that danced along her skin, whispering of things still to come.
As the door closed behind her, the silence of the chamber returned, not empty this time but full of the echoes of what had been given and what had been learnt.