Molly paced the room like a trapped animal, the low candlelight flickering across her pale, drawn face. Shadows trembled along the stone walls, chasing her every movement. Her fingers twisted the edge of her sleeve as her eyes darted toward the four still figures lying side by side.
Harry was in the centre, surrounded by Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Their bodies were too still, their chests rising only faintly, as if even breathing took too much effort.
"They look like they're just asleep," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. Then, louder, more brittle: "How much longer?" Her voice cracked. "How long until they wake?"
Slughorn hesitated, wringing his hands. His normally ruddy cheeks were bloodless, and his eyes darted from one unconscious figure to the next. "I—I don't know," he said finally, his voice thin and unsteady. "The ritual didn't say what would happen afterward. Only that it had to be done."
Molly turned to him sharply. "You performed advanced magic on them without knowing the consequences?"
"It was the only way!" Slughorn snapped, then immediately looked ashamed. "They were willing. They knew the risk."
"But did they understand it?" Molly's voice rose, shrill with panic. "They're just children—"
"They're not," Hagrid cut in quietly. He stood off to the side, massive hands clenched into trembling fists. "Not anymore."
Silence fell like a stone.
Hagrid took a slow, shuddering breath, eyes fixed on Harry. "They will wake up… won't they?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me they will."
Slughorn opened his mouth, closed it, then looked down at the floor. When he spoke again, his voice was low. "If the ritual failed… if Harry couldn't do what he needed to… he may never come back."
The words slammed into Molly like a blow. Her knees nearly gave out, and she reached for the edge of a table to steady herself. Around her, the air seemed to grow heavier, suffocating.
"No," she said, almost to herself. "No, not Harry. Not after everything."
She looked at him—the boy who had been like a second son. His face was too still, too pale. That fierce spark that always lived behind his eyes, even in sleep, was gone now. Her chest tightened with a helpless grief.
Ginny's hand twitched slightly. Molly rushed forward—but it was only a nerve spasm. Nothing more.
"I can't do this again," she whispered. "I can't bury another child."
Ron's face was turned slightly toward Hermione, as if even in unconsciousness he was reaching for her. Hermione's brow was furrowed, caught in some silent nightmare. And Harry—Harry was unreachable, locked away in a place no magic could touch.
A sharp knock shattered the silence.
It wasn't a knock, Molly realised—it was tapping. Urgent, desperate tapping against the glass. Everyone turned. A wild-eyed owl beat its wings furiously outside the window, a red envelope clutched in its beak.
Bill crossed the room in two strides, throwing open the window. The owl swooped in and dropped the Howler, screeching as it wheeled around and disappeared back into the night.
Bill caught the envelope mid-air. "It's from George," he said, confused. "Why would he—?"
But the envelope had already begun to smoke.
It burst open in a flare of red light, and a deep, snarling voice poured out—twisted and cruel:
"YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD HIDE FROM ME. YOU THOUGHT YOUR LITTLE BLOOD-TRAITOR FAMILY COULD DEFY US. BUT WE SEE EVERYTHING."
Molly froze. That voice. Cold and mocking, dripping with venom.
"Yaxley," Percy said hoarsely. "That's Yaxley."
"WE HAVE YOUR PRECIOUS SON, GEORGE," the voice growled, triumphant. "IF YOU WANT TO SEE HIM ALIVE,BRING POTTER TO THE FORBIDDEN FOREST. YOU HAVE UNTIL MIDNIGHT."
The Howler exploded in a flash of flame. Smoke curled into the air, thick and choking.
Silence followed.
The final echo of Yaxley's voice hung in the air like smoke, curling through the room and sinking its claws into every chest. The silence that followed was unbearable—sharp, suffocating. Not even the crackling hearth dared to break it. Just the soft gasp of air from Molly's lips as she staggered back a step, one hand pressed tight to her heart.
Bill's hands shook violently as he stared down at the scorched remnants of the Howler. The ashes drifted like black snow, dissolving into the cold air and leaving behind an emptiness that sucked all warmth from the room.
Nobody spoke. Nobody breathed. They were suspended in that moment—caught between fear and paralysis, all eyes darting to one another as if the answers might appear in someone else's face.
Then, at last, Molly's voice broke the silence. It cracked with raw panic. "M-My George…" Her knees buckled slightly, and she braced herself on the edge of the table, her breath coming shallow and fast. "They—they've got him—" Her voice faltered as tears welled in her eyes.
Arthur moved quickly to her side, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. But his own face was stricken, drained of colour. "We only have four hours until midnight," he said grimly, his voice heavy, strained—as if every word weighed a hundred pounds.
Molly blinked rapidly, trying to focus. "Why—why would they send a warning? Why not just—" She couldn't finish the sentence. The implication hung there, horrible and unanswered.
Hagrid, still standing stiffly near the wall, crossed his arms over his chest. His face was shadowed, jaw clenched. "Could be a bluff," he muttered, but his tone lacked conviction. "Yaxley's always been the sort ter toy with people. Could be tryin' ter rattle us."
His gaze dropped to the pile of blackened ash on the floor. "But it felt real," he added quietly. "Too real."
Percy stepped forward suddenly, his voice cutting through the fog. "I'll check the shop." He jerked his thumb toward the door. "George lives above it. If something's happened—if he's not there—I'll find out."
Bill turned sharply. "Are you sure, Percy? If they're watching—"
"I'm not sitting here while he's out there alone." Percy's voice was iron. It carried the sharp edge of desperation masked by control. "I won't lose another brother."
Arthur gave a tight nod. "Go. But be careful. Apparate from a distance; stay hidden until you know it's safe."
Percy glanced once at his mother—her face pale, lined with fear—and then vanished with a sharp crack, leaving behind only the ghost of his urgency.
Arthur turned to the others. "I have to reach Kingsley. We'll need backup if this turns into a rescue. And a diversion, if Harry's not well enough to go."
"But they'll kill George if Harry's not there!" Molly cried. Her voice rose with a grief-stricken desperation, hands wringing together until the knuckles turned white. "They'll punish him for it. You heard what he said—Yaxley wants Harry."
"I know," Arthur said, his tone softening, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his own dread. He reached for her hands, holding them tightly in his. "But we can't walk into a trap. We don't know what they've planned. We have to be smart."
Molly shook her head, eyes wet and wide. "Smart won't save him. Speed might. Action might."
Arthur kissed her forehead gently, the gesture meant to soothe—but it was empty comfort. He stepped back, squared his shoulders, and headed for the door. "I'll send word the moment I know anything."
Then he was gone.
Molly was left alone in the silence, Hagrid watching her with quiet sympathy. The walls of Shell Cottage seemed to pulse with stillness, the quiet now deafening. The room that had once been a sanctuary felt like a tomb.
She drifted toward the window, each step slow and hesitant, as though the floor might give way beneath her. She stared out at the dark horizon. The stars were faint tonight, swallowed by clouds, and the sea beyond the dunes was black as ink.
Her breath fogged the glass. She didn't wipe it away.
In her mind, images collided—George smiling in the shop, the mischief in his eyes… blood on his face, shadows dragging him away… Yaxley's voice replaying over and over like a curse: If you want to see him alive.
Tears spilt silently down her cheeks.
Behind her, Hagrid shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the moment too heavy even for someone his size. "We'll get him back, Molly," he said softly. "We've got ter."
But she said nothing. She just stood there, staring into the darkness, waiting for some flicker of light.
The room Hermione stepped into was dim and circular, eerily similar to the first chamber they had encountered during the trials. Shadows clung to the stone walls like wisps of smoke, flickering with life as if the room itself were breathing. The only light came from the centre, where two towering mirrors stood side by side, silver frames glowing faintly. Each had a strange, ornate knob before it—like a key waiting to be turned.
She took a cautious step forward, her footsteps echoing faintly on the cold floor.
"You took your time," Harry's voice sliced through the quiet, sharp and brittle. He stood near the mirrors, arms crossed, jaw clenched. In his eyes, Hermione caught the usual spark—determination, frustration—but beneath it, something else glinted. Fear, maybe. Or worry.
Hermione rolled her eyes and pushed back her curls, her voice clipped. "Sorry I didn't apparate through solid stone. I got here as fast as I could."
"If you were in that much of a hurry," she added, stepping closer, "you could've gone ahead without me."
"I would have," Harry snapped, sarcasm curling through his words like smoke. "Except the room refused to reveal anything until all three of us were here. You were the missing piece, apparently."
Hermione's face flushed hot. She clenched her fists at her sides. "How was I supposed to know that? You think I planned to be late?"
"I didn't say that," Harry said, though the accusation hung heavy between them.
"Then stop treating me like I did," she fired back. Her voice trembled at the end, not with fear, but with something far more exhausting—tension, confusion, the creeping weight of doubt.
Harry let out a huff and turned away, his cloak flaring behind him as he stalked toward the mirrors.
Ginny, who had been leaning quietly against the wall, sighed and moved to follow him. "Honestly," she muttered, "you two are impossible."
Hermione stood still, her chest rising and falling with the force of unspoken words. She felt frayed—like a thread pulled too tight. The visions still clung to her mind like cobwebs she couldn't shake.
"You alright?" Ron's voice reached her gently. He stepped closer, his expression open and careful.
"I'm fine," Hermione answered too quickly. The lie scraped against her throat.
Ron studied her face, seeing more than she wished he could. "What happened in the first room? Something's been off since then."
Hermione hesitated. She dropped her gaze to the floor, afraid of what he might see in her eyes—afraid she'd start unravelling. The images were still too fresh, too vivid. The sensation of knowing Harry, not as an enemy or rival but as something else—something closer—haunted her.
"I… I saw something," she said at last, voice barely more than a breath. "After the first task. A vision. Like a memory—but it wasn't mine. It felt real. And wrong."
Ron frowned, puzzled. "What kind of vision?"
She took a moment, then explained—halting at first, then in more detail—the fragmented glimpses, the strange familiarity of Harry's face, and the strange sense of urgency that clung to her like fog. When she finished, Ron was silent. Thoughtful.
"You've never had a memory like that before?" he asked, his brow furrowing deeper.
Hermione shook her head. "Highly unlikely I'd imagine Harry Potter as my friend," she said bitterly. The truth of it stung more than she expected.
Ron gave a small, uneasy chuckle. "Right. You two barely speak without drawing wands."
"Exactly."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe… maybe it wasn't a memory. What if it was the future?"
Hermione looked at him, startled by the suggestion.
"I don't know," she murmured. "It didn't feel like something that would happen. More like something that ishappening. Somewhere. At the same time." Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her skirt. "Does that make any sense?"
Ron nodded slowly. "More than I'd like to admit."
Hermione's heart thudded. "The visions started right after I gave them the potion. I chose it to help them during the task, to protect them. And then I saw that world."
"You altered the process. Maybe that changed something," Ron offered gently.
"No, it's not just that," Hermione insisted. Her voice dropped. "It felt real. Not imagined, not conjured. Real."
A silence stretched between them. Then Ron, his eyes steady, asked, "But what can you even do with a vision like that? You said it yourself—it's another world. A parallel reality, maybe. How would you even begin to reach it?"
Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her hands trembled faintly.
"I don't know," she whispered. "But I think the tasks are showing us more than they appear. They're not just puzzles or tests. They're connected to… something bigger."
Ron gave a slow nod, though uncertainty still clouded his eyes.
"I believe you," he said softly. "But be careful, Hermione. If this is real—if what you saw actually exists—then you might be closer to something dangerous than you realise."
The chamber was quiet but charged with energy—dimly lit, ringed in soft, shifting reflections. The air felt thick, humming with unspoken possibilities. Hermione stood just behind the others, her gaze drawn to the two towering mirrors that faced them like ancient sentinels. One gleamed with polished temptation; the other remained stark and almost too real. Each one reflected something different—something important.
To the left, the mirror held only the truth. No glamour. No illusion. Just their current selves, plain and honest. Hermione caught her own reflection and saw exactly who she was in that moment—tired, tense, and guarded. Her eyes lingered on the slight tremor in her hands.
To the right, though… That mirror shimmered like starlight caught in glass. It pulled at her, beckoning. Inside it, she saw visions—versions of herself draped in recognition and achievement. Headmistress of Hogwarts. Recipient of countless magical honours. Her robes were dark and stately, her posture proud. She looked strong. Respected. Admired.
"Who are you?"
The voice was disembodied, low and distant, but it echoed all around them. A single question, simple and sharp, that sliced through the silence like a wand in motion.
Hermione's breath caught. She turned to see Harry standing still, staring hard at the mirrors. His face was unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. He didn't answer the question. None of them did.
To Hermione's left, she caught a glimpse of his reflection—plain robes, messy hair, wary green eyes. Just Harry. But in the mirror to the right, he was everything the world might expect him to become. Minister of Magic. Head of Aurors. A healer with a steady wand and confident smile. In every version, he was clean-cut, powerful, and sure of himself. And yet… he stood frozen.
"Does it show the future?" Ginny asked, her voice hushed with wonder. Her wide eyes flicked from mirror to mirror like a child glimpsing the stars for the first time.
"No," Ron said flatly, though his voice held a trace of envy. His reflection on the right showed him triumphant—clutching the Triwizard Cup, his parents beaming at his side. In another version, he wore an alchemist's cloak, golden and shining. A professor's robes in another. Always someone more than who he was now.
"But if it's not the future," Ginny pressed, "what is it showing us?"
"The mirrors reflect the desires of your heart," Harry said at last, voice distant, as though speaking more to the reflections than to them. "Not what will be. What you want to be."
Hermione's stomach twisted. Her right-side self looked perfect, almost unreal. The accolades. The confidence. The power. She didn't just want that—she ached for it. To be someone who made a difference. Who was remembered. Who wasn't doubted at every turn.
Ginny moved closer to the mirror of desires. In it, she saw herself soaring across a Quidditch pitch in Holyhead green, and in another frame, scribbling furiously in the press box as the Daily Prophet's top sports correspondent. Her mouth parted slightly in awe.
"Isn't it strange?" Hermione murmured, tearing her eyes away. "That they've given us two mirrors. One showing who we are, the other who we think we want to become. It feels like a choice. Or a test."
"A path," Ginny echoed, her voice quiet but firm. "One you pick. One you walk."
Hermione studied the left mirror again. Her own face stared back—no less determined, but stripped of any pretence. The right-side reflection glittered with promises. But promises weren't truth.
Harry scoffed. "You're overthinking it," he muttered, voice thick with impatience. "The left is nothing. Just the same boring version of yourself. The right is where you belong. Why settle for what you are when you could become more?"
His fixation unsettled her. Hermione glanced at him, frowning. "That's not the point," she said gently. "Don't you think what we want says something about who we are? Shouldn't we ask why we want it before charging in blindly?"
"Nothing's stopping you from chasing those things," Harry said tightly. "It doesn't matter which mirror you look into. You can make it happen."
"But maybe it does matter," Hermione said, voice rising slightly. "Maybe this is here to make us question which part of ourselves we trust more—the one we dream of being or the one we already are."
Ron shifted uncomfortably. He didn't disagree, not really. But his eyes kept flicking back to the right mirror. His fingers twitched, as if they wanted to reach through the glass. Hermione could see the longing in his face. She felt it too.
Harry's temper snapped. "Believe whatever you want," he said sharply. "But I'm done waiting around." He gripped the doorknob that had appeared at the base of the right mirror. With one final look, he vanished through it, the glass swallowing him whole.
Hermione swore under her breath. Her pulse thudded in her ears. "He always does this," she muttered. "Rushes ahead without thinking."
Ron gave her a sympathetic look. "Let him. He's doing what he thinks is right."
Hermione turned toward him, eyes narrowing. "But what if it's not right?"
Ginny stepped closer, laying a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "Sometimes the only way to know is to go. Besides, we've made it this far, haven't we?"
Before Hermione could answer, Ginny touched the right mirror and vanished too.
The chamber felt colder now. Quieter.
"It's just you and me," Ron said softly. He didn't look at her—his eyes were fixed on the images in the mirror again. "I want to go right. But I think your instincts have been sharper than mine lately. So if you're going left… I trust you."
Hermione swallowed, suddenly feeling the weight of that trust. She stepped toward the left mirror, toward the honest reflection. Her hand hovered above the knob. She took a slow, steadying breath.
"See you on the other side," she said, voice steadier than she felt.
And then, with one final look at Ron, she turned the knob and disappeared.
Ron stepped through the left mirror, following Hermione without hesitation. The instant the door clicked shut behind him, the world spun. Light fractured like shards of glass around him, colours bleeding into each other in a dizzying swirl. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The air crackled with strange energy, and then—
Visions.
They came at him fast. Scenes bursting through the dark. Some faint, like distant memories barely recalled, others vivid enough to make his heart pound in his chest.
He staggered forward, bracing a hand against the wall as his senses tried to catch up. It took a second—maybe longer—before everything stopped spinning. When he finally opened his eyes, Hermione was already there. She was staring at him with wide eyes, her expression caught between awe and something heavier. Something sad.
"D-did you see it, too?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Ron nodded slowly, still catching his breath. "Yeah. I did." The images flickered again in his mind—bright and strange and real. "At first, I thought I was just seeing things. But then… there were too many of them. And they made sense."
Hermione stepped closer, eyes locked on his face. "What exactly did you see?"
He swallowed. The words felt strange leaving his mouth, but they came anyway. "It was Hogwarts. Me and Harry, but… not the way we are now. We were friends. Proper friends. In Gryffindor. Always together—laughing, fighting trolls, sneaking out after hours. It was like I was living someone else's life. But it felt mine, Hermione. I don't know how to explain it."
Hermione let out a breath, half-shocked, half-relieved. "It's not just you, then," she murmured. "This is bigger than I thought."
"I even saw Harry…" Ron hesitated, frowning. "He looked sick. Pale. Weak. Mum was there—my mum—and she was taking care of him like he was family. Like he belonged with us."
Hermione's eyes lit up with recognition. "I saw something similar. In my vision, there was a book—Anima. I saw another version of myself reading it. Have you ever heard of it?"
"Anima means 'soul,'" Ron said automatically, dredging up the Latin from some buried corner of his memory. His mind was racing now, struggling to fit the pieces together.
Hermione nodded, her expression turning thoughtful. "I think these visions are more than just side effects from the tasks. Every time we don't follow the expected route—every time we choose differently—the visions get clearer. Like we're being shown something we're meant to understand."
Ron stared at her. "You're saying the world we saw—the one where Harry's different—it's real?"
"Maybe not in the way we understand reality," Hermione said carefully. "But it's something. That version of Harry… He was open-minded. Kind. He stood up for everyone, no matter their blood status. He reminded me of what our world could be—if people like him were the ones shaping it."
Ron glanced ahead, where Harry had disappeared down the corridor. His footsteps echoed faintly. "I know what you mean. That Harry… I liked him. A lot more than the one we've got." He winced. "That sounds awful, doesn't it?"
"No," Hermione said gently. "It sounds honest."
They walked in silence for a moment, the torchlight flickering over the stone walls. Their footsteps quickened as they caught sight of Ginny and Harry further down the corridor. But just as they were about to call out, Hermione froze.
Ron turned immediately. "What's wrong?"
Her eyes were wide, distant. She looked like she was listening to something only she could hear. "I could feelit," she whispered. "Like I was inside the vision. I wasn't just watching—it was like I was there, experiencing everything. I think… I think I heard them speaking."
Ron's stomach turned. "Heard what?"
She didn't answer right away. Her gaze flicked toward the floor, then back to him, hesitant but determined. "I think Harry's soul is damaged," she said at last. "I saw us performing a spell… something to heal him, maybe. I don't know how, but I think this world we're in—it isn't quite real. Or maybe it's less real than the one we saw."
Ron frowned. "Hermione, that's… a lot." He rubbed the back of his neck. "How can this not be real? We're here. We're breathing. This feels real."
"I know," she said quickly. "I know how it sounds. But everything in those visions feels more aligned than what we have here. The people, the choices… the magic. It's like the tasks are revealing what could've been—or what still can be—if we figure out how."
He stared at her, uncertain. But her eyes didn't waver. She meant it.
"Try it," Hermione urged. "Let yourself fall into the memory. Don't fight it. Just feel it. There's something in there, Ron. Something important."
Ron drew in a shaky breath. The world around him dimmed at the edges, his vision pulling inward. He let himself fall, just as she'd said.
At once, he was back in the storm of colour and sound. But this time, he let it wash over him.
He saw Harry again—frail, lying in bed, his breath shallow. Hermione and Ginny were beside him, their faces tight with worry. Harry looked up at them and smiled—not his usual smirk, but something fragile. Grateful.
"Thank you for everything you've done for me," Harry said softly, his voice like an echo underwater. "I'm uncertain of what the future holds, but—"
The scene shifted.
Ron leaned forward, desperate to hold onto it. The next vision surged into view. They stood in a circle, drinking a glowing potion. Light spilt from their bodies—soft and silver, like wisps of their souls—and streamed toward Harry, who sat at the centre. The magic curled around him like a guardian, like a second chance.
And then it was gone.
Ron gasped, his chest tight. He blinked, the corridor returning to focus, the torchlight suddenly too bright. Hermione was watching him, eyes wide with expectation.
"I saw it," he said, voice hoarse. "I saw it all."
"And?" she asked.
He hesitated, heart pounding. "I don't know what it means yet. But it feels like everything we do from this point on matters a lot more than we thought."
Hermione nodded. "Exactly."
Together, they moved forward—closer to answers, closer to something neither of them could quite name.
Before Ron could put words to the mess of feelings still tangled inside him, the four of them stepped into a chamber flooded with light. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, arching like the sky above a Quidditch stadium. For a moment, it felt like they'd been dropped into some strange dream of childhood—golden and wide and full of possibility. Four broomsticks hovered before them in midair, and a golden snitch darted past with a soft metallic hum, its wings flashing like sunlight on water.
Ron stared at it, momentarily distracted, but the echo of Hermione's words still pulsed in his chest like a second heartbeat: Harry's soul is damaged. The phrase was sticky, clinging to the corners of his mind. He didn't know what to make of it. Didn't want to, maybe. That kind of talk was too heavy, too big. Too much.
He turned to Hermione, about to ask what she really meant—if she was sure—but she cut in first, her eyes following the snitch's flight. "Should we catch it?" she asked, sounding more uncertain than usual.
Ron could hear the edge in her voice, subtle but sharp. She was always brave, always ready—but even she was unsettled by the weight of the visions.
"I think so," Ginny replied, her voice low and unsure. Hermione's gaze flicked upward, scanning the chamber like she was expecting the ceiling to fall in or for the snitch to vanish into smoke.
Without a word, Harry mounted his broom and kicked off. He rose into the air like it was the most natural thing in the world, not looking back, not waiting. Ron watched him go, that familiar twist returning to his gut. Harry could always throw himself into the unknown, like he didn't have anything holding him back. But Ron did—questions, fears, doubts that clung like shadows.
"I caught some of what you were saying," he blurted suddenly, turning to Hermione. "In the corridor. I saw Harry thanking us. You and me and the others—we drank something, cast a spell. It felt important."
"What are you two babbling about?" Ginny's voice sliced through the air, sharp with irritation. She'd been listening, then. Ron hadn't noticed.
He tightened his grip on the broomstick. "It's going to sound mad, but after the first and second tasks… we saw something. A version of us. Together. As friends."
"A vision?" Ginny raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "And what exactly did you see in this fantasy of yours?"
Hermione didn't flinch. "We were all bonded. Close. And Harry… he was hurting. Not just physically. His soul is fractured."
Ginny laughed—a cold, hard sound that echoed far too loud in the chamber. "Of course you'd say that. You don't even like him, Hermione. You never have. Now suddenly you care about his soul? Please. Sounds like you're just trying to mess with him—gain some advantage."
Ron felt heat rising to his face. "She's not making it up. I saw it too."
Ginny crossed her arms, hovering just at the edge of belief. "Then maybe you're both losing it."
"We're not," Ron said, the words coming fast now. "We saw Harry sick. You and Hermione were at his side. We gave him something—magic, light. It was like we were healing him. It felt real. Like it meant something."
Ginny scoffed again, but Ron pushed forward. "Think about it, Gin. Does this world make sense to you? Really? Doesn't it feel… off?"
"No," she snapped, mounting her broom with a practised swing. "What's off is you two, flying off into delusions. I'm not wasting time with this. We've got a task. That's real."
She kicked off and soared upward, leaving the rest of them grounded.
"What now?" Ron asked, frustration gnawing at him. The chamber suddenly felt colder, too wide and echoing. "She's not going to listen."
Hermione grabbed one of the brooms, jaw set. "Then we make her. We show her."
Ron followed her lead, lifting into the air. His broom wobbled slightly at first, but he found his balance quickly. They climbed higher, chasing after Ginny as the snitch darted out of reach like a teasing ghost.
"Ginny!" Hermione called, wind catching her voice. "Please! Listen to me!"
Ginny twisted around in midair, her eyes blazing. "Stop it! I don't want your pity or your philosophy. I'm not broken, and neither is Harry!"
"This isn't about pity," Hermione shouted back. "It's about the truth! We saw it, Ginny!"
"You saw what you wanted to see!" Ginny yelled. "If you're miserable with how things are, that's not my problem!"
Ron sped up until he was close enough to shout over the rush of wind. "What if this isn't the life we're meant to have? What if something's been changing us—changing him? Doesn't that scare you?"
Ginny scowled. "And what, you want to overthrow the world because of a dream?"
"No," Ron said firmly. "We want to save someone who matters to all of us. Even you."
Her expression shifted then—just slightly. The defiance was still there, but it cracked at the edges. A question crept in.
"We think there's something wrong with the way this place works," Hermione said, her voice gentler now. "And we think Harry's at the centre of it. The Harry we saw… he's better than this. He's more."
A long silence followed. The snitch hovered above them, forgotten.
Ginny looked between the two of them. "And what do you expect me to do?" she asked quietly. "Just trust you?"
"Yes," Ron said. "Trust us. Trust yourself. Deep down, you know something's not right."
Ginny hovered for a moment longer, suspended between belief and doubt. Then she gave a reluctant nod, not quite surrender but something like it.
"Fine," she said. "What do we do now?"
Ron exhaled. "Open your mind. Let the vision in. Let yourself feel it. That's how it started for us."
Hermione drifted closer, her broom steady beneath her. "This is the beginning of something, Ginny. We can change it. Together."
The word echoed between them, soft but firm, and for the first time, it felt like they were on the edge of something real.
Harry could feel the wind tearing through his hair, cool and sharp against his skin as he soared through the air. His broom hummed beneath him, vibrating with each lurch and turn. He wasn't flying for glory—not really. Not anymore. It was something messier. A cocktail of adrenaline, frustration, and something harder to name.
He chased the snitch like it had stolen something from him.
It flickered in and out of sight, a golden blur that taunted him with its freedom. No matter how sharply he turned, no matter how tightly he gripped the broom, it slipped away again and again. Like it knew him. Like it understood just how badly he wanted to catch it—not for points, not for house pride, but to prove something. To feel in control of something.
Below, Ginny's laughter rang out across the stadium. Harry glanced down and blinked in disbelief. She was chatting—chatting—with Ron and Hermione, who were flying without urgency, hovering in loose formation as if they were taking a scenic tour, not competing in a tournament.
It felt like a different world. One where things made sense to them and not to him.
Harry gritted his teeth, gaze snapping back to the sky. Focus. He was tired of being the one lost in the dark while everyone else drifted above it like nothing was wrong.
"Focus, Harry," he muttered under his breath. His jaw clenched. The words felt heavier than they should have, like a spell gone wrong.
He thought of the Slytherin common room. Cool stone, green firelight, and the safety of clear expectations. Pride. Control. Power. Things you could hold in your hands.
And yet here you are, a voice inside him whispered. Chasing something you'll never catch.
A flicker of gold sparked in the corner of his vision.
Harry's breath caught. There. He leaned forward, muscles tightening, broom tilting into a dive. But just as he pushed, Ginny streaked past him—her hair a blur of red, her form lean and focused. She moved like she belonged in the sky, like the air made space for her. There was something effortless in the way she flew, like the wind listened to her.
Harry pushed harder, chasing her now as much as the snitch. His pride burnt like fire in his chest.
She won't beat me. Not today.
They flew neck and neck. For a split second, they were aligned—breath to breath, flight to flight. Her eyes were on the snitch. His eyes were on everything.
On her. On the way Ron and Hermione drifted so easily together below. On the empty place inside himself he hadn't been able to name for a while.
Then the snitch zigged violently to the left, and instinct took over.
Harry swerved sharply. Too sharply.
His broom jerked beneath him like a live wire. One second he was flying—the next, he was barely holding on. The wind screamed in his ears as he tilted off-balance, weight yanked sideways. His fingers slipped on the handle. For a heartbeat, his body dangled in the air.
Panic struck hard and fast.
Not now. Not here.
He flailed, breath choking in his throat as the ground spun far below. The world tilted wildly. And no one was watching. No one saw.
Except her.
A blur of motion shot toward him. Then: a hand. Fingers dug into his wrist—firm, shaking, alive.
"Hang on, Harry!" Ginny's voice cracked through the wind like a lifeline.
Her grip locked around him just as his hand began to slide. The force nearly knocked both of them sideways, but she held tight. Time stretched. His heart pounded against hers as she yanked him upright. Their brooms collided roughly, stabilised, and hovered.
His breathing was ragged. So was hers.
Their eyes met—wide, startled. And something passed between them.
Not words.
Not even understanding.
Just truth. Raw, blinding, painful truth.
She had chosen him.
Not because of the task. Not for the points. Not because he was famous.
Because he was falling.
And she caught him.
A beat of silence. And then Harry exhaled, the sound trembling.
"Thanks," he said, voice hoarse.
She didn't answer right away. She was staring at him, something shifting behind her eyes—uncertainty giving way to something else. Realisation. Connection. A thread of something that felt old and new all at once.
Then she blinked. And it hit her.
He saw it in her face.
The visions. Whatever Ron and Hermione had been talking about. The doubt that had lingered on the edge of her mind now exploded into colour. Harry saw it ripple through her, like water disturbed by a stone.
Her mouth parted. Her breath caught.
Harry watched her like she was unravelling—and becoming whole—all at once.
And then her gaze unfocused, distant. As if a door inside her had just been thrown open.
She saw something.
He didn't know what.
But he felt it.
Whatever it was, it had just begun.
Harry hovered in the air, the tip of his broom wavering slightly as he tried to steady himself. Something was wrong.
Ginny wasn't moving.
She floated a few metres away, her broom swaying gently as if caught in an invisible current. Her eyes were wide and distant—glassy, unfocused. Her lips moved ever so slightly, though no sound came out. It was like she wasn't really here.
A cold weight settled in Harry's chest.
He glanced quickly around the pitch. Ron and Hermione hovered nearby. They looked just as dazed, their faces twisted with emotion—fear, sorrow, and something else Harry couldn't place. They looked like people waking from a dream they didn't want to remember.
Harry's pulse quickened. What the hell is going on?
He edged closer to Ginny, heart thudding.
"Ginny?" His voice came out strained. He reached out and touched her shoulder, gently at first. Her skin was cold through the fabric of her Quidditch robes, and she trembled beneath his fingers.
She didn't respond.
"Ginny," he said again, louder now. He gave her a slight shake, just enough to jolt her back.
Her body tensed, and her eyes blinked rapidly as if trying to refocus. She looked at him—through him, almost—and Harry felt a strange sensation crawl up his spine.
There were tears. Silent, steady. Rolling down her cheeks.
"Are you alright?" he asked, but he already knew the answer.
The sound of broomsticks cutting through the air broke the silence. Ron and Hermione drifted closer, their faces pale.
"What's happening?" Harry demanded, his voice sharper than intended. "Is this some kind of trick?"
No one answered at first. The wind moved between them, filling the silence like a warning.
Then Ginny spoke, barely above a whisper. "This… this isn't real."
Harry frowned. "What are you talking about?"
She looked at him fully now, her expression shattered. "I can hear him. I can feel his pain."
Harry recoiled slightly. "Feel whose pain?"
But Ginny only shook her head, wiping her tears with the edge of her sleeve. Her hands trembled.
"This is madness," Harry muttered. "You all look like you've gone mental." He turned to Ron and Hermione. "What are you doing? What is this?"
Hermione stepped forward, her tone calm but grave. "Harry… we saw you. In a memory. Or a vision, maybe. You were sick. Very sick."
Harry's chest tightened. "What does that mean?" he asked, eyes narrowing. "You're not making sense."
Ron added, "You weren't yourself. It was like—like something was eating you alive."
Ginny let out a broken sob. "You were in pain. Alone. Trapped in something you couldn't escape."
Harry shook his head, heat rising in his chest. "I feel fine. I am fine! Why are you trying to convince me otherwise?" He backed away slightly, broom drifting. "Is this part of the task? Some kind of illusion?"
"It's not a task," Ron said firmly. "It's the truth. This world—it's not what you think it is."
Ginny's voice cracked. "It's a lie, Harry. Everything. You're… you're asleep somewhere, lost in this illusion. We didn't know at first. I didn't believe it. But it's true. I saw it."
Harry's breathing grew heavier, faster.
"This is ridiculous." He crossed his arms, glaring at all three of them. "You're trying to confuse me. Distract me. For what? To make me lose?"
"No one's trying to beat you," Hermione said gently. "We're trying to wake you up."
Harry scoffed. "From what, exactly? I almost caught the snitch. You saw me. I'm the one in control here."
He spun suddenly, eyes scanning the pitch. And there it was—the snitch, glinting near the far goalpost.
There. Something he could understand. Something real.
Without waiting for a response, he shot forward, wind roaring in his ears. His hand stretched. The snitch darted once, twice, but then flew right into his palm. The satisfying snap of his fingers closing around it sent a thrill through him.
Harry turned in midair, breathless, triumphant.
"Have you all completely given up?" he called, forcing a grin onto his face. "I'm the only one still playing the game."
But the others didn't cheer. Didn't laugh.
Hermione stared at him with eyes that seemed to see right through the victory. "We're not trying to win, Harry. We're trying to save you."
"Save me?" His voice sharpened again. "From what—being good at what I do?"
"From a world that isn't yours," Ron said. "From a life that's been fabricated to keep you docile. We think it's some kind of enchantment—or curse. You've been placed here to forget who you are."
Harry's eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. "I'm not buying it."
"You never do," Ginny whispered. "That's part of the trap."
"Enough!" Harry snapped. "You want me to believe I'm not really here? That my life—my team, my house, everything—is fake? I'm not insane. I know what's real."
"Do you?" Hermione asked softly. "You don't have to understand it all right now. But let us help you. Please."
She reached out her hand.
Harry recoiled like she'd tried to hex him. "What do you know about me?" he snapped. "You think you can waltz into my world and tell me I'm wrong about everything? I've done just fine without you."
Ron stepped forward. "You think you're fine because this world keeps you numb. It gives you control, fame, and glory. But it isolates you. We saw how much pain you're really in. You don't even know it anymore."
Harry's face darkened. "I'm not listening to this."
"Harry—" Ginny tried again.
He turned on her, furious. "You need to back off, Weasley."
Her eyes widened, fear flashing behind them.
"It's not a threat," she whispered. "It's just the truth."
Harry leaned forward, finger pointing just inches from her face. "If you don't stop this, you'll regret it."
Silence dropped like a stone.
The wind rustled Ginny's hair as she stared at him, heartbreak written across her features.
Harry turned abruptly, jaw clenched, fist tight around the snitch. He stormed toward the stadium exit, mind racing, heart pounding.
He didn't look back.
He couldn't.
Because if he did, he might start to believe them.