Molly stood rooted to the spot, one trembling hand pressed against her mouth as she took in the sight before her. Her eyes, wide with disbelief, flicked as she stared at Neville. Percy stood close, his expression caught between confusion and concern, brow furrowed as he squinted at Neville like he was trying to make sense of a riddle that shouldn't exist.
"Neville?" Percy finally said, his voice slicing through the tense stillness. "What—what are you doing here?"
Beside him, Bill narrowed his eyes. His wand hand twitched slightly at his side, alert, uncertain.
Neville hesitated, shifting uncomfortably under their scrutiny. His heart was pounding like a drum against his ribs. This wasn't how he'd imagined the reunion. Not with George's blood still caked on his shirt. Not with the guilt clawing at his insides.
George's injuries were worse up close. A jagged gash ran down his forehead, partially dried blood flaking off his temple. His face was a mess of bruises and cuts, and his shirt clung to his chest, soaked dark red. Neville had helped carry him from the edge of the forest, but the sight still turned his stomach.
"Er—hello," Neville managed to say, voice cracking. His hand rubbed the back of his neck, trying to hide the creeping heat that flushed his face. "I know this looks… strange."
Molly slowly lowered her hand, her voice barely above a whisper. "Neville, what happened? Why are you dressed like—?" Her words cut off, her eyes flicking from Neville to the others, panic dawning in her features. "Where is Harry?"
Arthur stepped forward, his face grave, eyes scanning Neville with growing tension. "What's going on here?" His voice, though not raised, carried the weight of deep worry. "Why would you pretend to be him?"
Neville swallowed hard. His stomach twisted as their eyes bore into him—full of fear, confusion, and expectation. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't mean to deceive you. We had to do it—it was part of the plan."
Molly's brows creased deeper. "What plan? Whose plan?"
"It was Malfoy's idea," Neville added quickly, almost defensively. "I—I agreed to it. We all did. But it wasn't for any selfish reason. We just wanted to keep Harry safe."
The mention of Malfoy made the room shift. Several heads turned to him at once. He stood just behind Neville, looking composed, but there was a noticeable tightness in his jaw. He clasped his hands behind his back, his posture stiff but controlled.
Kingsley stepped forward then, his calm, authoritative voice grounding the rising unease. "Neville's telling the truth. We couldn't allow Harry to walk into danger again—not with Yaxley watching his every move. The Polyjuice deception was necessary."
Arthur's frown deepened, but he gave a slow nod. "I understand the risk," he said, though his eyes remained locked on Draco. "But this… It's quite an operation you've pulled off. How did it come together?"
Draco inclined his head, a calculating light in his eyes. "It started when I found Yaxley's hidden stockpile of Polyjuice Potion," he said. "He wasn't careful with his locks. I… took the liberty of appropriating a few vials. It occurred to me we could use it to confuse him. To keep Potter out of sight."
Molly's eyes narrowed, her expression unreadable. "And Yaxley never noticed?"
"Not once," Draco replied, a flicker of pride in his voice. "He's not as clever as he thinks. I've had years of practice getting into places I'm not supposed to be."
There was a soft ripple of surprised laughter from the members of the group—Dean, Seamus, and Lee exchanged quick glances, the tension in the room briefly lightening. Even Percy seemed reluctantly impressed.
Neville allowed himself a thin smile. He could almost picture Malfoy creeping around the dungeons at night, swiping potions and making mental maps of the Death Eaters' routines.
"But how did you make the potion work?" Arthur asked, pressing further. "You'd need… something of Harry's, wouldn't you?"
Draco stiffened, and for the first time, he looked slightly uncomfortable. "Yes," he said, more slowly now. "We did. It wasn't ideal, but we had to act fast. Longbottom collected a few strands of Potter's hair. I gave them to him."
Molly's lips parted in shock. "You took his hair?"
"It was necessary," Neville said quickly, stepping in to absorb the blow. "I didn't like doing it, but we didn't have another choice. If we didn't act, Yaxley would've sniffed out the truth. It was the only way to buy Harry time—to let him stay hidden until we could strike back."
A heavy silence fell over the clearing. George shifted slightly on the ground, grimacing from pain, but managing to lift his head just enough to speak. "You fooled us all," he muttered with a rough, dry chuckle. "Never thought I'd be impressed by a Slytherin plan."
Draco raised a brow, a faint smirk returning to his face. "Coming from a Weasley, I'll take that as a compliment."
"And Neville…" George's gaze turned to him. "You played Harry better than I would've guessed. Bit stiff in the shoulders, though."
Neville ducked his head, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. "I was terrified."
"You were brave," Bill said quietly. "That counts for more."
In that moment, Neville felt something unfamiliar swell in his chest—something like pride, tempered by a wave of self-consciousness. It pulsed beneath his skin, tangled with years of self-doubt. He had done something brave, something real. And not because he had to, but because he chose to. It dawned on him then that he and Malfoy, despite everything, shared a peculiar bond: they were both willing to take risks—big ones—if it meant protecting the people they cared about.
"I didn't expect it to be so easy," Neville said, his voice low but steady, tinged with a wry, self-deprecating smile. "Imitating Harry, I mean. I just… closed my eyes and tried not to move. Played dead." A chuckle escaped him, but there was tension in the sound—like a string stretched too tight. "Turns out, I'm not half as bad at acting as I thought. But… I didn't cast many spells. Didn't feel right. Didn't feel like me."
His gaze drifted across the clearing, eyes scanning the edges of the dark forest as if still searching for the danger he'd narrowly evaded. His face carried the weight of someone who had crossed a line—and wasn't sure yet what it had cost.
Kingsley stepped forward, his deep voice warm and grounding. "Don't sell yourself short, Mr. Longbottom," he said, nodding slowly. "Few wizards your age—any age—would've done what you did. You put yourself in harm's way, and you didn't falter. That's not just brave. That's extraordinary."
There was a murmur of agreement from the group. The remaining members of Dumbledore's Army drew closer, offering quiet pats on Neville's back, gentle nudges of solidarity. In their eyes, he saw pride—genuine and unspoken. The kind that needed no fanfare.
Bill crossed his arms, his sharp eyes flicking between Neville and Draco. "Still doesn't explain how you got Harry's hair," he said, his tone calm but tinged with suspicion. "I was very careful about where he was taken. Only a handful knew."
Draco glanced sideways at Neville, lifting an eyebrow. His silent look was clear: your turn.
Neville flushed, the blood rising hot in his cheeks. His hands twisted together in front of him, fingers knotting in an anxious rhythm. He could feel their eyes again—Bill's, Percy's, and Mrs. Weasley's—all waiting, all watching. He swallowed hard, steeling himself. This wasn't just about telling the truth. It was about owning it.
"It happened after Yaxley made that speech," he began, voice tightening with the memory. "When he riled the Death Eaters into going after Harry… It was chaos. People started swarming St. Mungo's, trying to break in. I was already there to visit my parents, and I overheard Hermione—she was whispering about needing to move Harry somewhere safe. I didn't catch the full name, but Luna—"
"Luna?" Arthur cut in, brows raised. "Xenophilius's daughter?"
Neville nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah. She's the one who figured it out. She'd been to your home before," he said, turning to Bill. "I think that's how she knew where to take them."
Arthur turned in place, scanning the crowd with a sudden urgency. "Where is she?"
"She's watching over them," came Slughorn's soft voice from the edge of the group. His robes slightly dishevelled, and there was a grim cast to his round face. "She insisted on staying behind."
The realisation hit Arthur like a blow to the chest. His mouth parted slightly, and a thousand questions flickered behind his eyes. "Harry… and Ron—?"
"They're still unconscious," Slughorn said gently, answering before the full question could form. He looked at Molly then, his tone softening further. "I'm sorry, Molly. They haven't woken."
She stared at him, eyes wide, her arms wrapping around herself as if to physically hold her heart in place. "It's been hours," she whispered. "Surely—surely they would have—"
"I believe whatever challenges—magical or otherwise—run deep," Slughorn said heavily. "Too deep for a quick recovery. Their minds are still fighting. That's why they haven't come back to us yet."
The words hung in the air, pressing down on the clearing. Even the forest seemed to fall still.
From behind them, Hagrid's voice rumbled out, low and strained. "They'll pull through, won't they?" His eyes were red-rimmed, his massive frame seeming to shrink beneath the weight of fear. "Harry, Ron, Hermione… Ginny… they'll make it."
Slughorn met Hagrid's gaze, and for a moment, nothing was said. But something passed between them—something silent and true. Hagrid nodded once, more to himself than anyone else, jaw clenched with quiet resolve. He understood. They all did. The truth was unspoken but unmistakable: hope was all they had left.
Around them, the DA shifted uneasily, their murmurs hushed and filled with worry. Neville caught fragments—Ginny's name, Hermione's, the way someone said, "They have to wake up." Their loyalty ran deep, but it was fraying at the edges, raw from waiting.
Neville stood among them, heart heavy. He looked down at his still-stained robes, the ghost of Harry's likeness now gone, washed away like a spell wearing off. The fear hadn't vanished with it. If anything, it had only grown sharper. But he stood taller now.
Because even in this moment—frightened, uncertain—he knew what he had done. And he would do it again if it meant giving his friends one more chance to wake up.
"They can't be gone."
The thought echoed through Neville's mind like a tolling bell, persistent and cold. His fingers curled around the enchanted galleon in his pocket, gripping it tightly as if it were a lifeline. It radiated warmth—soft, pulsing, alive—and the heat of it felt almost cruel against the chill that had settled in his chest. What if they didn't wake up? What if this was it?
The silence pressed in. The absence of Harry's laughter, Hermione's sharp voice, and Ron's teasing—it all loomed like a shadow preparing to swallow him whole.
Kingsley's voice cut through the stillness, calm but edged with fatigue. "It may be best if everyone returns home for now," he said, turning to address the remaining members of Dumbledore's Army. His shoulders were squared, but the strain showed in his face. "It's been a long night. I'm deeply grateful for everything you've done. We'll regroup in the morning to plan our next steps."
At once, voices rose in protest.
"We can't leave now!"
"We'll wait until they wake up!"
"There's no way we can rest like this!"
The words came sharp and fast, like sparks from a fire that refused to go out. The DA stood firm, their faces lined with exhaustion but fierce with loyalty. They wouldn't abandon Harry. Or Ron. Or Hermione. Or Ginny. Not now. Not ever.
Kingsley raised a hand, and the crowd slowly quieted. His voice softened, but it didn't lose its authority. "I understand," he said. "Truly. But your staying won't change what's happening. They're in capable hands, and the best thing you can do for them now… is be ready when they wake. We'll send word the moment anything changes."
He turned to Draco then, his voice turning brisk. "Come with me. We need to make our report at the Ministry."
Draco gave a short nod, jaw clenched. He looked tired—tired in a way that didn't come from lack of sleep but from the weight of what he'd done, what he'd risked. He didn't speak as he stepped toward Kingsley, but something unspoken passed between them.
One by one, the DA members began to disapparate, sharp cracks echoing through the trees as they vanished into the night. Soon only a small cluster remained: the minister, Draco, Neville, Slughorn, Hagrid, and the Weasley family.
Then it happened.
A sudden pulse of heat flared against Neville's pocket.
His breath caught. "It's Luna!" he said sharply, yanking the galleon from his pocket. The gold shimmered faintly in the moonlight, the engraved letters morphing beneath his fingers.
Everyone turned to him at once.
"What is it?" Arthur asked, stepping closer. Worry lined his face, worn deeper by the long night.
"I—I'm not sure," Neville stammered. "She promised to alert me if anything happened. It might be about Harry. Or Ron. Or—" His throat tightened around the rest of the names.
"Could they have woken up?" Percy asked, his voice brittle with hope, eyes darting between Neville and the coin.
Kingsley placed a firm hand on Arthur's shoulder and gave the family a small, steady smile. "Draco and I need to return to the Ministry," he said quietly. "But please, keep us informed. No matter what the news is."
"We will," Arthur said with a nod, already turning to the others. "Some of us should go back to Shell Cottage—check on them directly. Molly, I think we ought to take George to St. Mungo's."
George, who'd been leaning heavily on Bill and Percy, groaned with a mix of exhaustion and protest. "I think I'll live, Dad. Let's head to Shell Cottage first. If I start keeling over, you can drag me to the hospital after."
Molly's face tightened in worry. "Are you absolutely sure, dear?" she asked, brushing a hand against his bloodied arm.
"These scratches won't take down a Weasley," George replied with a crooked grin. "You've got to give me more credit, Mum."
She huffed, half exasperated, half relieved, and gently cupped his cheek. "We'll go to St. Mungo's right after, whether you like it or not."
"Aye, aye," he said, giving her a small salute.
Just before disapparating, Malfoy turned back to the group. His voice was clipped, but something in it felt unexpectedly sincere. "Give my regards to Harry."
Neville blinked. It might have been the first time he'd heard Malfoy say Harry's name like that—without spite, without sharpness. Just… quiet acknowledgement. He glanced at the Weasleys, wondering if they'd noticed it too. If they had, they didn't comment. They only nodded as Malfoy vanished with a crack beside the minister.
Still holding the galleon, Neville turned to the Weasleys, heart thrumming in his chest. "Can I come with you?" he asked, quieter now. His voice was small, uncertain—but there was something solid behind it. Something that had taken root and grown stronger over time.
Bill looked at him, and his smile was soft, warm, and full of something close to pride. "Of course you can," he said. "Harry's going to want to see you. Especially when he hears how you pulled off one of the greatest impersonation stunts of the year."
Neville flushed deep red, laughter rising in his throat despite everything. The thought of seeing Harry again—of being able to tell him "We made it"—felt both thrilling and terrifying. He didn't know what he'd say first. He only knew this: he would say it.
And they would all be there to hear it.
The waves lapped gently against the shores of Shell Cottage, their soft rhythm like a lullaby whispered to the sand. The moon hung high above the sea, casting a pale, silvery glow across the world. Inside the quiet cottage, Luna Lovegood stood by the window, her long blonde hair flowing down her back like strands of moonlight. Her eyes, wide and luminous, mirrored the starlit sky she often studied. Though the world around her was still, her thoughts churned with worry.
It had been hours since Slughorn had left. The candles scattered throughout the cottage flickered against the walls, casting warm, trembling shadows. Luna had walked slowly through the rooms, drawn by the soft light—and by the sleeping figures of her friends. In the largest room, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny lay on beds placed side by side, like soldiers finally allowed to rest. They looked peaceful at a glance, but Luna had been watching closely. She'd seen the twitch of Harry's hand, the tense pull in Ginny's brow, and the small, restless movements that hinted at dreams not entirely calm.
She wanted to believe they were healing. But doubt pressed in at the edges of her thoughts like the mist rising off the sea.
Luna's mind drifted back to earlier that evening, when Neville had reached out to her. He'd sounded breathless—anxious, even. The moment he explained what had happened, she had agreed to meet him at the Ministry without hesitation. The urgency in his voice had wiped away any second thoughts.
When she arrived at the Ministry's grand atrium, she spotted Neville immediately. He stood with Draco Malfoy and Minister Shacklebolt, their faces tight with concern. The air around them had felt heavy, like something important was about to break.
Neville quickly explained the situation—his voice low, hurried, and laced with frustration. He told her how he'd tried to remember where Harry had gone into hiding, how he'd overheard snippets from Hermione, but the name of the place had slipped his mind. Luna, listening carefully, had felt a sudden, deep certainty. She knew the place. She had stayed there once—rescued from Malfoy Manor by Dobby, she had taken refuge in that very cottage before the final battle at Hogwarts. Shell Cottage. A place of safety. A place of quiet healing.
Now, as she stood beside her friends once again, that memory gave her strength.
Ron was the first to stir.
Luna stepped closer, crouching by his bed. The shadows under his eyes were deep. His face was pale and drawn. She leaned forward and whispered his name, her voice barely more than breath.
"Ron?"
His eyes fluttered open, blue and confused. He blinked, squinting as though trying to see through a fog. "Luna?" His voice was hoarse, like it had scraped against silence too long.
She gave him a small, warm smile. "Yes. You're the first to wake up."
He groaned and sat up slowly, every muscle in his body protesting. His gaze flicked toward the beds beside him, searching. "Where's Hermione? Ginny?"
"They're right here," Luna said gently. "Still asleep. But I think… they're coming back to us."
As if hearing her, Ginny shifted under her blanket, her head turning toward the sound of voices. A moment later, Hermione stirred too, blinking slowly, her hair tangled and her eyes wide with disorientation.
"Ron?" Hermione's voice cracked as she said his name, as if just the act of saying it grounded her again. She sat up too quickly and swayed with dizziness, but her eyes found his and stayed there.
"I'm here," he said, his voice rough but steady. He reached for her hand without thinking, and she grasped his.
Ginny sat up next, her expression dazed. "What's going on? Where are we?" she asked, her voice a whisper laced with fear.
"You're safe now," Luna said softly. "You're home."
Ginny's eyes darted around the room, then locked onto Ron, then Hermione, then Luna. "Is this real?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Are you real?"
Luna gave a small laugh, tilted her head, and said in her dreamy way, "As real as moonlight. But if you mean whether this is really happening—yes, it is. You're back. You're safe."
Hermione's eyes filled with tears, though she fought them, blinking quickly. "How long have we been out?"
"Just a few hours," Luna said. "You've all been through so much. We didn't know how long it would take or if you'd—" She cut herself off, pressing her lips together. The thought had been too painful to finish.
They exchanged confused glances, their eyes still wide with the fog of waking. Luna's calmness only made their unease more noticeable. She stood near them, steady and quiet, her gaze passing gently over each of their faces like moonlight over rippling water. Though her manner was serene, her mind was racing with concern.
Leaning forward slightly, she spoke, her voice gentle but grounding. "What is it that you remember? Has the ritual—?"
"The ritual!" Ron blurted, the word crashing into the silence like a stone dropped in still water. Realisation lit up his face, chasing away some of the grogginess, but his eyes were still clouded with disbelief. The memories returned like pieces of a shattered mirror—brief flashes, confusing images, and heavy emotions they didn't know how to hold.
Hermione's hand flew to her mouth. "So we're back…" she whispered, her voice trembling, her fingers slightly shaking as she touched her lips, like she was afraid speaking aloud might make it vanish.
"Yes," Luna said with a soft nod. "You've only just come to."
But even as that truth settled in, their attention turned at once to the figure still lying motionless on the bed across the room.
Harry.
Ginny's breath hitched in her throat. The pounding in her chest grew louder as she moved toward him, each step drawn by love and fear in equal measure. "Why isn't he awake?" she asked, the words catching in her throat. She reached out and gently brushed his hair back from his forehead. The tenderness of the gesture only made his stillness more unbearable. "Did we finish the ritual? Shouldn't he have…?"
"We must've completed it," Ron said quickly, but his confidence faltered even as he spoke. "We're awake. That has to mean something, right?"
"But why hasn't Harry woken up yet?" Ginny's voice cracked, full of dread she couldn't hide. "If it worked… he should be here with us. With me."
No one answered. The silence that followed was deafening.
Hermione tried to pull herself together, clutching the edge of her blanket as if it might anchor her to the moment. "Let's think clearly," she said, though her voice was unsteady. "What's the last thing we all remember? Before waking up here?"
They sat still, each lost in a storm of memory, reaching for answers through the fog.
"I only have flashes," Hermione said at last, her brow furrowed deeply. "Everything feels jumbled… I remember light. Silver light. And mirrors, maybe. But I don't know what it meant."
"I saw things too," Ginny said quietly. "But it's all so… blurred. Like it was happening underwater."
"There was some sort of task," Ron added. "I think we were supposed to do something important. But I don't remember what it was."
Hermione closed her eyes and tried to will the pieces back together. "There was a golden potion. And yes, mirrors… But they didn't just reflect. They showed something. Someone."
"Were you dreaming?" Luna asked softly, her head tilted, her tone almost curious rather than alarmed. "Or did it feel like something else?"
Hermione looked at her, something sharp behind her eyes. "It wasn't a dream. It felt… real. Like we were in a different place entirely. Another realm. I can't explain it."
Her gaze flicked toward Harry's still body, and her voice dropped. "But Harry was with us. I know he was."
"I remember that too," Ginny said, her voice a bit stronger now. "He was there. But he… he wasn't acting like himself."
"No," Ron agreed, frowning. "He was… different. Like he'd turned into someone else. Arrogant. Cold."
"Like Malfoy," Ginny added, voice tight. "Not exactly him, but… there was something in the way he spoke. The way he looked at us. It wasn't Harry. Or maybe it was… but twisted."
Luna's voice was barely a whisper. "Malfoy?"
They turned to her. Her expression had changed—still dreamy, but tinged now with something deeper. A quiet tension.
Ginny nodded slowly. "I can't say for sure. But it felt like… like someone else was inside him. Or he'd become someone else entirely."
Hermione looked disturbed by the thought. "Another Harry?" she echoed faintly.
Luna didn't speak for a moment. Then she gave a small shrug, her silver eyes clouded with thought. "Maybe not another Harry. Maybe another version of him. Something born from the ritual itself."
"Or something hiding inside him," Ron muttered, shivering. "Something we didn't see until then."
Ginny's fists clenched at her sides. "But what does that mean? Is he trapped? Is that why he hasn't come back?"
Luna met her gaze, calm as ever. "I don't think what you saw was a hallucination," she said gently. "I think it was real. In some way."
Hermione stared at her, searching for logic behind Luna's strange confidence. "But how can you be sure?"
Luna offered a faint, enigmatic smile. "It's just a feeling. Like when I sense Nargles in the attic. You can't always prove something's there—but sometimes, you just know."
Ron groaned softly and rubbed his face. "So we didn't imagine it. But what did we do? Did the ritual succeed? Or did we bring Harry somewhere he can't return from?"
The question hung in the air like smoke, curling and choking. Hermione's arms wrapped around herself, her voice soft and grim. "It felt so real. All of it. But what if it meant nothing? What if we didn't save him at all?"
They all fell silent.
Only the sound of the sea outside the cottage answered them—its endless rhythm brushing against the shore as if echoing the question none of them dared to ask out loud.
Ron was the first to break the silence, his voice thin and unsure, as if speaking too clearly might shatter something fragile. "I think… we must've completed some tasks," he murmured, squinting as though trying to focus on a distant memory. "But just before I woke up… all I can remember is bars. Like we were imprisoned."
At his words, Luna's expression subtly shifted. Her eyes widened, though her face remained composed. A creeping sense of dread stirred in her chest—something about that image unnerved her in ways she couldn't yet explain. "Bars?" she echoed softly. "Were you engaged in anything unusual before that happened?"
Hermione shook her head slowly, confusion and fear dancing across her features. "No," she said, though doubt already laced her voice. "We weren't doing anything strange… but the feeling—it was real. I could almost feel the cold of the metal." She hugged her arms around herself, as though the memory carried a chill that clung to her skin.
A tense hush fell over them.
Ginny sat down beside Harry again, her hand instinctively reaching for his. His skin was still warm, but that only made his motionlessness harder to bear. Her voice trembled as she spoke, her thumb brushing gently over his knuckles. "If we were imprisoned… then what exactly were we meant to do in there? What was the purpose of it all?"
Hermione exhaled a heavy breath, her posture slumping under the weight of uncertainty. "Something happened. Something important. But I don't know what. It's like it's right at the edge of my mind… and I just can't reach it."
"Do you think it was part of waking up?" Ron asked, rubbing the back of his neck. "Like… maybe we were trapped, and the ritual was supposed to free us?"
Ginny looked up sharply. "But if that's true, and if it worked—" her voice cracked, "—then why isn't Harry awake?"
Ron's breath caught. "You're not saying we failed the ritual… are you?"
She looked away, her hands trembling where they rested over Harry's still form. The idea hung between them like smoke, thick and choking.
Ron turned to Hermione, seeking something—logic, reassurance, hope. She looked even paler now, her lips pressed into a tight line. "I don't feel anything wrong," Ron added quickly, reaching for any semblance of certainty. "Harry said he could feel it before, remember? When it went wrong—he said there was a burning inside. I don't feel that."
"I don't either," Hermione admitted, though her voice wavered. "But if the ritual failed… maybe the effects don't show up right away."
In the flickering candlelight, Ginny's eyes filled with tears. "I refuse to believe we're only awake because the ritual failed," she said, her voice shaking but full of fierce resolve. "It had to mean something." She leaned forward and pressed her fingers against Harry's wrist, her breath hitching as she waited.
After a long moment, she exhaled—relief and worry tangled together. "His pulse is steady."
Ron and Hermione both watched her closely, their fear silent but raw. Hermione curled into herself, arms around her knees, staring into the middle distance as if searching for answers. Ron fidgeted, twisting the fabric of his sleeves between his fingers.
Suddenly, Hermione straightened with a spark in her eyes. She stood so quickly that the blanket slipped from her shoulders and landed in a crumpled heap behind her. "I need to consult the Anima book," she said with urgent conviction. "If there's any explanation—any clue—about what happens after a ritual like this, it'll be in there."
Before she could leave, Ron turned to Luna, his voice tight with worry. "How long has it been since the ritual started? Since we went under?"
Luna blinked, considering. Her gaze drifted to the moonlit window, as if consulting the stars. "I arrived only a few hours ago," she said quietly. "Neville and Minister Shacklebolt asked me to watch over you while they left."
A flicker of confusion passed between them—Hermione paused, Ginny furrowed her brows, and Ron gave Luna a long, uneasy look.
"Watch over us?" Ginny asked slowly. "Why? What were you expecting?"
They all turned, as if suddenly realising how still the house had become. No movement. No voices. No sign of the others.
"It's too quiet," Ron said, rising to his feet. "Too quiet for a house full of Weasleys."
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Luna… where is everyone? Where are Mr and Mrs. Weasley? The rest of the family?"
Luna turned to Ron and Ginny fully now, her dreamy expression darkened by gravity. She spoke gently, but her words landed like thunder.
"Your brother George has been taken."
The world seemed to freeze.
The candle beside Harry guttered slightly, its flame shrinking low before flaring back to life.
"What?" Ron shot to his feet, the blood draining from his freckled face. "What do you mean taken?!"
Ginny stood too, her voice rising with panic. "Kidnapped? By who? When?!"
Hermione clutched at her chest, trying to breathe past the sharp sting of panic. "Luna, tell us what you know."
"They've gone into the Forbidden Forest," Luna replied evenly, though a trace of sorrow lingered behind her calm. "Neville. The Minister. Your family. They're out there searching for George—and trying to hold off whatever's coming."
Ron's fists clenched at his sides, his voice trembling with urgency. "Then we need to go—now. We can't just stay here while they're—"
"Wait," Luna interrupted, her voice suddenly firmer than before. "It's too late to go rushing into the woods now. It's dark and dangerous, and none of you have fully recovered."
"But if they're in danger—!" Ginny shouted.
"They are," Luna said gently. "That's why the minister had a plan. He and Neville set up protections and made arrangements for the worst. But they also knew you'd need time to recover. That's why they left me here—to protect you."
Her eyes glimmered with quiet intensity.
"How can you be certain it worked?" Ron asked, his voice still laced with doubt. The question broke through the fragile calm, sharp with fear masked as scepticism. "What if the plan failed?"
Hermione, who had been scanning Luna's every movement with wary precision, cut in. "You worked with Neville on this plan?"
"And the minister," Luna replied, her tone soft but sure, a faint glimmer of hope rising in her expression. She reached into the folds of her cloak and withdrew a shimmering galleon. The coin's surface rippled faintly in the candlelight, its heat still pulsing with recent use. "I promised Neville I'd alert him the moment you woke. This coin sends him that message."
Ron stared at it for a moment, the flicker of magic in its surface somehow more grounding than reassuring. "So that's it?" he said, his frustration bubbling over. "We're just meant to wait here while George is out there—somewhere—hurt, or worse? I should be out there looking for him, not sitting around doing nothing!"
Ginny's jaw tightened, her silence brittle and trembling.
Hermione frowned. "I understand how you feel," she said softly, her voice gentler than Ron expected. "But we can't rush into this blindly. If the others are out there… and if the plan is already in motion… we have to trust them."
"Trust?" Ron echoed bitterly, turning toward the window as if trying to see through the dark. "I don't even know what's real anymore."
Luna opened her mouth, likely to respond with one of her characteristic riddles, but before she could speak, a series of loud cracks shattered the stillness. The air shifted—magic laced with urgency.
"That's people Apparating," Ginny whispered, her heart leaping in her chest. "It has to be."
As one, they moved—bodies propelling forward with instinct more than thought, driven by the hope that the end of their long nightmare had finally arrived. The front door creaked open into the cold night, revealing figures advancing through the darkness. Lantern light bobbed and flickered between them, illuminating faces half-familiar and wholly beloved.
Luna's breath caught as she spotted Neville first—worn and weary, his cloak stained with forest mud, but his eyes alive with fierce relief. And behind him—
George.
Dishevelled, pale, and half-limping, he was supported on both sides by Bill and Percy, his feet dragging slightly. Yet even from a distance, his unmistakable grin—lopsided and weary—was there, blooming like a flower in frost.
Ron's feet moved before his mind could catch up. A strangled cry burst from him as he ran into the open, the others close behind. The family collided in a tangled embrace, limbs clinging tightly as though to anchor one another against the tide of everything they had survived.
Molly was sobbing outright, her hands trembling as she clasped Ginny's face, kissing her daughter's forehead and cheeks, checking every inch for harm. "Thank Merlin. Thank Merlin. Oh, my girl—my darlings—you're safe." Her voice broke again and again.
Arthur was slower and quieter but no less moved. His hand brushed gently through Ron's hair before pulling him into a rare, firm hug. For a moment, the world outside faded—the night, the danger, the waiting—all forgotten in the singular comfort of reunion.
From behind them, Hagrid's unmistakable silhouette filled the doorway, his beard glistening with dew, his cheeks ruddy and gleaming. "There yeh are," he boomed, his grin wide, though his voice betrayed his fatigue. "All in one piece, thank Merlin."
Slughorn followed close behind, already patting his brow with a handkerchief and looking faintly winded. "I haven't wept that much since the incident of '73," he puffed, before collapsing into the nearest chair, waving off help with a weak smile.
Neville, meanwhile, stepped into the house and froze at the sight of his friends. His eyes met Hermione's first. "You're really back," he said, almost in awe.
Hermione nodded, though tears still clung to her lashes.
Ron carefully helped George onto the sofa, wincing at the way his brother flinched when his side brushed the cushions. "What happened?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion. "What really happened out there?"
"It was chaos," Bill said, pulling off his gloves with shaking hands. His eyes were wide, pupils still dilated from adrenaline. "Absolute madness. We walked straight into an ambush. Yaxley was waiting, but… Draco Malfoy saved us."
"Malfoy?" Ginny echoed, blinking in disbelief. "That Malfoy?"
Neville stepped forward, nodding. "He knew what was coming. He told the minister. He helped us lure the Death Eaters into the forest, where we'd set traps—spells, charms, centaur allies. It was all coordinated."
Hermione's breath caught. "Malfoy helped coordinate a counterattack?"
Neville's eyes sparkled with reluctant admiration. "He did more than that. He let me take Polyjuice—pretend to be Harry—so they'd be drawn to me instead. It worked. They thought they had him. We drew them deep into the forest, right into the Auror perimeter."
Molly and Arthur were seated now beside George, who was drinking from a restorative flask Slughorn had conjured. Bill hovered nearby, scowling as he inspected George's torn sleeve, while Percy murmured something inaudible, brow creased.
"And you won?" Ron asked, cautious.
Neville smiled faintly. "We survived. That's not nothing. The Death Eaters are scattered. We even captured Yaxley."
The room buzzed softly with awe, disbelief, and something brighter—something like hope, fragile but alive.
For the first time in what felt like an age, Hermione let herself smile.
"Where's Harry?"
Hagrid's voice sliced through the joyful murmur like a sudden gust of winter wind, freezing the warmth that had begun to settle among the gathered friends and family. The celebration faltered. Conversations stilled. Eyes turned, one by one, toward the familiar voice filled not with joy—but with worry.
The Weasleys, Neville, and even Slughorn looked around in confusion, the weight of the question sinking in.
"Harry should've been here," Percy said quietly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as if the gesture could hide the tightness in his throat. "He should be with us, celebrating. We wouldn't even be standing here without him."
"I kept thinking about telling him everything," Neville added, his smile fading. "The plan, what we did. I thought he'd be right beside us, hearing it all. I—I guess I forgot for a moment that he's not."
His words brought an abrupt shift in the room's energy. All eyes drifted to the trio—Ron, Hermione, and Ginny—who had grown silent, their expressions darkening as the spotlight of expectation found them. Ginny stared down at her hands. Ron clenched his jaw. Hermione closed her eyes briefly, as if bracing herself.
Luna watched them with a pang in her chest. Their silence was louder than words, a grief that hung unspoken. She wanted to say something comforting, something light—but nothing she could say felt like enough.
Hermione finally drew in a steadying breath and looked up. Her voice was quiet but unwavering. "Harry's still unconscious."
A gasp rippled through the group.
"But why?" Mrs. Weasley asked, her voice thin and shaking. "Why just Harry?"
"We don't know," Ginny replied, her tone barely above a whisper. Her eyes glistened, and her hands clenched tightly in her lap. "Everyone else woke up. Except him."
Slughorn's brow furrowed, his jovial demeanour replaced with genuine concern. "Is it possible," he ventured, "that the ritual was flawed? That it… affected him differently?"
"We've thought of that," Hermione said, though her voice wavered slightly. "But nothing in the spell indicates that it should've worked differently for Harry. Still… something's wrong. I can feel it. I'm starting to doubt everything we once believed."
"Doubt?" Hagrid echoed, stepping forward. His boots thudded heavily against the wooden floor. "What d'yeh mean by that, Hermione? What's happenin'? He's a tough lad, Harry. Always has been. He'll pull through, won't he?"
"We don't remember," Ron said, his voice dull. "None of us remember what happened right before we woke up. Not a single detail. It's like we were ripped out of one world and thrown into this one."
"That's not normal," Bill said sharply, stepping closer. "Have you noticed anything else strange? Physical symptoms? Pain? Anything?"
Ron, Hermione, and Ginny exchanged glances, then shook their heads in unison. The silence between them felt brittle, like thin ice.
"Have you consulted the Anima book?" Slughorn asked, voice rising slightly with urgency. "It must have something."
"We haven't checked it since we got back," Hermione admitted, guilt flickering across her face. She turned quickly to retrieve the thick, weathered book from the table. Her fingers trembled slightly as she flipped it open and began combing through the pages, each turn louder in the hush of the room.
Minutes passed. The air grew heavier with each page she skimmed.
"There's nothing here," she said at last, slamming the book shut, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "No answers. No guidance. It's like this was never meant to happen."
Ron stood close by, watching her. "There has to be something we've missed."
"We've looked," Hermione said, shaking her head. "Every book, every theory. All dead ends."
Ginny's voice cracked through the stillness. "Then why won't he wake up?"
Everyone turned.
She looked around helplessly, then to her mother. "He's breathing. He's alive. But it's like… like something's holding him back. Maybe he's trapped somewhere. Maybe he's fighting something in his mind, and he can't get out."
Tears welled in her eyes as her voice dropped. "And if he can't find a way back… what if we lose him for good?"
Without another word, she stood and quietly left the room. Luna followed silently, her heart aching.
They entered the room where Harry lay, the world outside muffled behind closed doors. The only sound was the steady, fragile rhythm of his breath.
Ginny moved to his side, dropped to her knees, and took his hand in both of hers. She traced the lines of his palm, her fingertips ghosting across skin that was far too still.
Luna lingered in the doorway, her wide eyes fixed on the boy who had once stood tall in battle, now utterly still. She imagined him elsewhere—wandering through golden fields under a sky untouched by war, where sunlight kissed his face and pain couldn't reach him.
But something inside her twisted with the truth she couldn't ignore.
He wasn't resting. He was lost. Somewhere deep, Harry Potter was still fighting—and this time, they couldn't follow.