"Ron."
A hand was shaking his shoulder—gently at first, then more firmly.
"Ron, come on. Wake up, sleepyhead."
Ron groaned and rolled over, pressing his face deeper into the pillow in an attempt to block out both the voice and the morning light. But it persisted—light, insistent—slipping through the last threads of his sleep until there was no point pretending.
With a reluctant sigh, he cracked one eye open. The dormitory swam into view, hazy with the pale morning glow filtering through tall windows. He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to scrape together the energy to sit up.
The golden light spilt over the Hufflepuff banners above his bed. For a moment, he stared at them—the badger stitched in rich black and gold—before dragging his gaze away. The colours still didn't feel entirely his, even now.
He could still see the Sorting Hat lowering over his eyes and smell the faint dust of its fabric.
"Ah… loyal, steady… You'd do well in Hufflepuff."
"I'm meant to be in Gryffindor," he'd blurted, before he could stop himself. "My whole family—"
"And here you are, with enough of them to last the school a century. Wouldn't you like a chance to stand on your own?"
He hadn't answered. He hadn't known how.
When the Hat shouted 'Hufflepuff!', the cheer from their table had been warm and welcoming—but somewhere along the Gryffindor table, Ginny's eyes had gone wide with surprise, and Fred and George had exchanged a look that made his ears burn.
"What time is it?" he mumbled now, shaking off the memory and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His toes sank into the thick carpet.
"Half past eight," came the reply, already fading as his dormmate disappeared into the corridor.
Ron muttered something under his breath and shuffled to the bathroom. The cold splash of water shocked him fully awake but did little to shift the weight in his chest.
By the time he came back, the dormitory was empty.
Yawning, he made his way down into the Hufflepuff common room. The space was bathed in gold from the ivy-wreathed windows, casting gentle light over polished wood and pale stone. The enchanted ferns swayed lazily in their pots, their leaves whispering softly. The air carried the faint scent of soil and parchment. Normally, the quiet warmth of it all would have settled him. Not today.
"Morning, Ron!"
He turned to find Cedric Diggory in an armchair by the fire, one foot on a stool, a book balanced casually in his hand. His dark hair was slightly mussed, his expression calm as ever, as if nothing could ruffle him for long.
Ron lifted a vague hand in greeting and slumped into the chair opposite. "Morning," he mumbled around another yawn.
Cedric looked up from his page, one eyebrow raised. "Rough night?"
Ron shrugged. "Something like that."
Cedric shut the book and set it aside. "Still thinking about the tournament?"
Ron didn't answer right away. His eyes fixed on the flames, watching them curl and snap. They reminded him of lying awake last night, thoughts twisting over and over, refusing to settle.
"You know why the headmaster chose you," Cedric said quietly. "You wouldn't be in this if you weren't ready."
Ron let out a short, humourless huff. "Easy for you to say."
"It's not easy," Cedric replied. "But you've got the heart for it. You just need to trust yourself."
Ron's gaze drifted to the floor, the pressure in his chest tightening. "Maybe if I win," he said at last, "they'll stop looking at me like I'm a mistake."
Cedric frowned. "Who does?"
"My family," Ron muttered. "They all ended up in Gryffindor. I was supposed to. Instead I got sorted here. And ever since—well—it's like I don't fit anymore."
He could still remember the first Hufflepuff dinner—smiling faces passing dishes of steaming potatoes, someone pressing a pumpkin pasty into his hand—and yet, across the hall, his brothers and sister were laughing around the Gryffindor table without him. It had felt like standing outside his own life.
"That's not fair," Cedric said.
"No," Ron agreed. "But it's true."
His voice dropped. "Ginny's a champion too. Gryffindor's golden girl. Doesn't even have to try. And me? I'm the mistake who landed in the wrong house."
Cedric chuckled softly—not mocking, just wry. "Siblings always compete. Doesn't mean you're not brilliant in your own right."
Ron shook his head. "She's got them all behind her—Mum, Dad, Bill, Percy—even Fred and George. I've got people wondering what went wrong with me."
Cedric's smile faded. "Nothing went wrong with you."
But Ron hardly seemed to hear. "If I can just win—just once—maybe they'll finally see me. Not just the tag-along. Not just a Weasley. Me."
Cedric didn't interrupt. Didn't try to fill the quiet. He just let the words sit between them until Ron carried on.
"And then there's Granger and Potter," Ron said, bitterness curling his tone. "Granger's always top marks, always knows the answer. And Potter…"
Cedric leaned back. "Not exactly friends, then."
Ron gave a laugh with no warmth in it. "He calls me a blood traitor. He thinks being rich and 'pure' makes him better. Looks at me like I'm dirt."
"You're not the first he's looked down on," Cedric said evenly.
Ron's jaw tightened. "He doesn't get to decide who matters. I'm going to prove I do. That all of us do."
Cedric's smile returned, slow and sure. "That's the fire. Keep hold of it."
Ron blinked at him, the words lodging somewhere in his chest. Strange, hearing it said aloud—stranger still, wanting to believe it.
Cedric got to his feet, stretching. "Come on. Breakfast. You can't go fighting the world on an empty stomach."
Ron hesitated, then rose too. The warmth of the common room seemed to curl around him again—not enough to banish the doubts entirely, but enough to hush them for now.
They headed towards the door, the murmur of voices and the faint clatter of cutlery carrying from the corridors beyond.
The Great Hall hummed with its usual morning life—cutlery chiming against plates, the low rumble of conversation rising and falling, and owls sweeping down from the rafters to drop post into outstretched hands. Overhead, the enchanted ceiling mirrored a soft morning sky, pale blue with faint skeins of cloud drifting lazily across it. Shafts of sunlight streamed through the high windows, catching in the goblets and scattering bright flecks across the long house tables. Toast and buttered crumpets were passed hand to hand; pages of the Daily Prophet rustled; bursts of laughter flared here and there.
For Hermione, it was all just noise.
She sat at the Ravenclaw table, her back straight, a fresh copy of the Prophet open in front of her. The paper shook faintly in her hands, though she willed it to stay still. Her heart thudded somewhere beneath her ribs—too fast, too heavy.
Today's issue carried the announcement she'd been waiting for, the one she'd half-dreaded. And there it was, halfway down the front page, bold as anything:
Hogwarts House Champions Announced
Ravenclaw: Hermione Granger
She stared. The words seemed brighter than the rest, as though the ink itself had decided to stand apart. She blinked once, twice, checking she hadn't misread it, that the lines hadn't changed in the moment between glances.
They hadn't.
She'd been chosen.
Pride surged through her—warm, startling—tangled with disbelief and something almost like panic. Her mind leapt ahead to every possible outcome at once, and she had to drag her eyes back to the page to steady herself.
But before she could begin to take it in properly, laughter rang out behind her—loud, deliberate, and aimed to cut.
"Oh, please," Harry's voice drawled, heavy with scorn. "As if any of them stand a chance in the next task."
Draco's answering snort was quick and sharp. "Everyone knows who the real champion is. The rest are just background noise."
Hermione's grip on the Prophet tightened until her knuckles ached.
She turned her head slowly. Potter and Malfoy were strolling just behind her, their pace unhurried, their voices pitched for maximum reach.
"Imagine letting Mudbloods and blood traitors compete," Harry went on, his gaze flicking to her with a calculated precision. "Dumbledore's clearly losing the plot."
A smattering of Slytherin laughter followed them—too loud, too eager.
Hermione felt her face grow hot. A knot of anger wound itself tight in her chest, burning in a steady, dangerous way. She reached for her goblet of pumpkin juice and drank deeply. It sloshed over the rim, running down her chin. She left it there.
Across from her, Luna Lovegood was watching, serene as ever, her pale eyes untroubled, as though the morning's insults had been no more than a passing breeze.
"They're teasing you again," she observed mildly, as though noting the weather.
Hermione let out a sharp breath. "So immature," she muttered. "Potter struts about as if he's some gift to wizardkind. His parents must be thrilled—what an achievement, raising an entitled, arrogant—"
"If his parents hadn't kept company with families like the Malfoys and Lestranges," Luna said dreamily, "he might have grown up less poisonous."
Hermione gave a low, humourless laugh. "At this point, I'd have a more reasonable conversation with the giant squid."
Luna tilted her head. "Still. You're the one who was chosen. That means something, doesn't it? You're clever, Hermione. You'll win."
Hermione's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Thanks. Not as though I've got much choice now."
Her eyes slid back to the Slytherin table. Potter sat sprawled in the centre, basking in the attention, his expression easy and self-satisfied. She bristled.
"He's already convinced he's won. Another title will just swell his ego further. I'm so tired of seeing his name in every blasted article."
And it was there again, woven through the Prophet's coverage—praise for Potter's 'remarkable magical lineage' and his 'natural talent', as though the rest of them were there to make up numbers.
With a sharp flick, she crumpled the paper and shoved it aside.
"Something upsetting?" Luna asked, blinking slowly.
"It's always the same rot," Hermione snapped. "Bloodlines, house pride—like it's some sort of game. Actual ability? Barely worth a mention."
Before Luna could answer, another voice cut through the steady hum of the Hall.
"Doubt you even understand bloodlines, Granger."
Hermione went still.
She rose, unhurried, her eyes locking onto his. They were cold, clear, and entirely without fear.
"Do you always eavesdrop on private conversations, Potter," she said coolly, "or is that simply one of your many charms?"
Harry gave a slow shrug, as if her words slid off him without touching. "Just thought I'd save you from making a fool of yourself later. Not everyone's built for this level of competition. Blood matters, Granger. You'll learn that sooner or later."
Hermione's nostrils flared. Her reply came low and deliberate, every word sharpened to a point.
"What I've learnt," she said, "is that your entire worldview is a steaming pile of dragon dung wrapped in designer robes."
The Great Hall stilled. Forks hung in mid-air; conversations broke off mid-sentence. Even the owls seemed to pause in their flight.
And Hermione held his gaze.
Harry's smirk curled at the edges, lazy and cruel.
"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 never finished.
Because Hermione's wand was already in her hand.
Something inside her had splintered the instant the words left his mouth—something buried deep, worn thin after years of holding her tongue, proving herself again and again while enduring the same tired slights. It wasn't just anger. It was grief. It was injustice. It was the grinding exhaustion of knowing she could never change where she came from, no matter how much she excelled. And all of it surged up at once, burning through her in a single, unstoppable wave.
A hush rippled through the Great Hall. Heads turned.
"You say one more word about my family," Hermione said, her voice honed to a razor's edge, wand fixed unerringly on him, "and I swear to Merlin, Potter, you'll be croaking like a toad until NEWTs."
Harry's smirk faltered—only for a heartbeat—before sliding back into place.
"Touchy," he said, with forced lightness.
But Hermione didn't blink. She didn't lower her wand. Her hand was steady, her gaze unyielding. She didn't need to hex him—not when the entire Hall was watching. Not when, finally, they could see him stripped of all the polish and pedigree.
A name.
A legacy.
A bully dressed in privilege.
"Enough, Hermione."
The voice was not loud, but it cut through the air with a finality that made even the nearest students stiffen.
Ginny stepped between them, the sunlight catching the vivid fall of her hair, her stance calm but carrying a quiet authority.
Her tone was warm, but there was steel under it. "Alright, you two… What's this about? Why's your wand out, Hermione?"
Hermione lowered it a fraction, her breath uneven. Now that the heat of fury had cooled enough for her to notice, her hands were trembling—but she refused to hide them.
Harry stared at the floor, jaw clenched tight, as though avoiding her eyes might erase what he'd just done.
"Nothing," he muttered, flat and dismissive.
Hermione gave a laugh with no humour in it. "Yes, nothing," she echoed, her voice steeped in acid. "Just Potter doing what he does best—spouting rubbish without a thought in his head."
Ginny's frown deepened. She moved closer, angling herself so that neither of them could advance without going through her. "This isn't how it's supposed to be. We're all champions now. Different houses, fine—but one school. We're meant to stand together."
Hermione's smile was thin and sharp. "Unity's never been Harry's strong point. He prefers the throne to the team."
That landed.
Harry's head snapped up, his eyes flaring. "Unity?" His voice was cold now. "You just pulled a wand on me."
"Because you insulted my parents," Hermione shot back, her voice breaking on the last word. "You dragged them into this—as though they're some weakness to mock. As though they don't matter."
For a flicker of a second, his face shifted. The arrogance cracked, revealing something almost uncertain beneath. He looked caught out, even… small.
But then the smirk reasserted itself, brittle this time.
"Well," he said quietly, "it's not as if they can defend themselves. They're—"
He never finished that sentence either.
The sound of Hermione's palm striking his face was sharp enough to ring off the enchanted ceiling.
Harry staggered back a step, his hand flying to his jaw. The skin there was already flushing an angry red.
Around them, the Hall froze. Forks halted midway to mouths; the flutter of owl wings stilled; papers hung in the air between fingers gone slack. Somewhere to the left, a Slytherin gave a low whistle. Others had risen from their seats—some ready to intervene, others watching with the kind of interest reserved for particularly promising duels.
Ginny's gasp broke the silence. Her gaze darted between them, her pulse thudding so loudly she could hear it in her ears. She'd seen arguments. She'd seen hexes fly. But this was different.
This was grief wearing the mask of fury.
Hermione stood exactly where she'd been, her chest rising and falling in quick bursts. The wand had vanished to her side; her hand still trembled faintly from the blow.
"Say that again," she said, her voice low and shaking, "and I won't stop at bruising your pride."
She turned without another glance, her robes flaring as she strode the length of the Hall, head high, spine rigid. The crowd parted for her in silence.
Only when she had gone did the Hall begin to breathe again.
Ginny stayed rooted, her eyes on Harry. He hadn't moved, hadn't spoken, his hand still pressed to his jaw. The flush of the bruise was nothing compared to the colour drained from his face.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice barely carrying past the nearest bench.
"I'm perfectly fine," Harry snapped, the words bitter, spoken more from wounded pride than any real pain. His grip on his jaw didn't ease—but Ginny thought the injury to his ego would last far longer.
Ginny reached out without thinking, her fingers hovering a breath away from Harry's sleeve. She'd meant only to steady him—perhaps even herself—but the look he gave her froze her in place.
It wasn't anger.
It was colder than that.
His eyes held no trace of the boy she'd grown up watching from a distance, nor the one she'd once thought she knew. He regarded her as though she were a stranger intruding at precisely the wrong moment, as though her concern was not kindness but trespass.
"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" he muttered. The words weren't raised, yet they carried a sting sharpened by the quiet contempt in his tone.
Her hand fell to her side.
For a moment she simply stared, mouth parting in surprise. "There's no need to be cruel," she said softly. "I was only trying to help."
But he had already turned away, his back held rigid as though her voice could not reach him. He didn't answer. Didn't even glance over his shoulder.
Ginny's breath caught.
She watched him stride towards the Slytherin table, every step clipped and deliberate. A few of his housemates reached for him, murmuring in low tones that didn't quite disguise their curiosity. His head dipped fractionally to listen, but his jaw was still set.
She stayed where she was as the life of the Great Hall slowly knitted itself back together. Cutlery resumed its chatter against plates; laughter began to stitch itself through the air once more; owls resumed their slow arcs overhead. Yet it all seemed strangely distant to her.
Ginny bit the inside of her cheek, the sharp sting grounding her. She couldn't decide which hurt more—that Harry had spoken to her in such a way, or that it still had the power to wound her at all.
Slowly, she turned from the centre of the hall and made her way towards the Gryffindor table. Her steps felt heavier than they ought; each one was weighed down by the words she hadn't spoken and the ones she wished she had.
Sliding onto the bench, she let her fingertips roam over the familiar grooves in the worn wood, tracing patterns without thinking. Somehow, they felt unfamiliar beneath her hand—different, though they hadn't changed at all.
Across the hall, she spotted Ron moving towards the Hufflepuff table. His stride was stiff, his shoulders squared as if bracing against some unseen gale. His brow was drawn tight, his expression one of determined focus—the sort he wore when carrying more than his fair share of the burden.
Her heart tightened. He had always tried so hard, far harder than anyone gave him credit for.
She was still watching him when a voice brought her back.
"Hello."
It was soft, steady, and warm—a tone that didn't demand anything of her but instead offered a quiet space in which to breathe.
Ginny turned to find Cedric easing himself onto the bench beside her.
His smile was open and unforced, his manner so easy that it unsettled her more than she cared to admit. He wasn't looking at her with pity, nor with the polite interest of someone making conversation for its own sake. He was actually seeing her.
"Oh—hi, Cedric." Her voice came out lighter and breathier than intended. Heat crept to her cheeks, and she dropped her gaze to her plate.
Her heart gave a small, traitorous flutter. She despised how obvious it must be.
They'd spoken before—brief snatches in corridors, polite exchanges at the Quidditch pitch—but something about this felt different. There was a stillness to it, a quiet awareness that neither of them seemed quite ready to name.
Cedric tilted his head slightly, a half-smile curving his mouth. "Every time I see a Weasley these days," he said, his tone gentle but laced with an easy humour, "you all look as if you're carrying the castle on your backs. What's going on?"
Ginny's muscles tensed, the knot in her chest tightening.
She knew exactly what was wrong—knew it in a way that kept her awake at night—but she wasn't about to spill it simply because someone asked nicely.
"Nothing," she replied, a little too fast. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, an unnecessary motion to cover the hesitation in her voice. "I'm fine."
It was a lie. And one so thin, she was almost certain he could see straight through it.
The silence that settled between them wasn't exactly uncomfortable, though it was far from easy. It had the sort of weight that made Ginny aware of the sound of her own breathing. She found her gaze wandering back to Ron, as if the sight of him might help her work out what she couldn't yet put into words.
Hoping Cedric might notice, she nodded faintly in her brother's direction. "Is he alright?" she asked, lowering her voice without quite meaning to.
Cedric followed the line of her sight. A small crease appeared between his brows. "He's alright," he said after a moment, but there was a deliberateness in the way he spoke, as if he were testing the word before offering it. "Just…"
"Worried about the challenge?" She finished for him, sharper than she'd intended. The sound of her own tone caught her off guard. "He's desperate to prove himself, isn't he?"
The bitterness surprised her. She hadn't realised it had been sitting there, lodged beneath her ribs, until it spilt out.
"So desperate," she added, though this time it came softer—less accusation, more confession.
Cedric didn't look away. If anything, his gaze seemed to ease, the faintest shift in his expression suggesting that he was weighing his next words with care.
"I understand his desperation," he said at last. "And I don't think it's a weakness. Everyone has something they're fighting to show. For some, it's the crowd. For others… it's themselves. Being a champion isn't about glory, not really. It's about courage. And deciding you belong, even when no one else has told you that you do."
Ginny dropped her eyes to her plate. The tines of her fork idly broke apart a lump of scrambled egg, scattering it without eating. His words brushed against something raw—something she'd been keeping locked away so tightly she'd nearly convinced herself it wasn't there.
"Right," she murmured. "So it matters. But he still thinks we don't see it. That I don't see it."
Cedric waited a beat before answering, his voice quiet, almost careful. "I thought you believed in unity. Between houses. Between people." His eyes found hers again, calm but unyielding. "I heard what you said to Granger. To Potter. So… why not give your brother that same faith?"
The question landed with more force than she'd been prepared for.
Ginny's grip tightened on her fork. The cool metal pressed into her palm. Her throat felt closed; the words tangled before they could form.
"It's not that simple," she said at last, the syllables clipped.
Cedric didn't argue. The stillness that followed wasn't hostile—it was simply there, leaving space for her to speak if she chose. She didn't.
She gave a shrug, shallow and deliberate, the sort that was meant to end a conversation without closing it entirely.
Cedric studied her a moment longer, then offered her something softer. "Please… just think about it. You might be the one thing holding him together."
He rose without rush or drama, the movement smooth, and turned towards Ron. There was a quiet resolve in the way he walked, a sense of someone who knew when to step in and when to step back.
Ginny stayed where she was.
She stared at her plate. She still wasn't hungry.
The knot in her chest remained, though it had shifted—just enough for her to notice the change.
Cedric's words lingered, heavier than she wanted them to. She had the uneasy feeling they'd stay with her long after the Hall emptied, long after the day had worn itself out, and long after she'd stopped trying to pretend they didn't matter.
The morning sun poured through the high windows, rich and golden, spilling warmth across the cold stone walls. It gilded the flagstones and cast long, dignified shadows across the corridor but did little to ease the knot of unease sitting tight in the chests of the four students gathered beneath the impassive gaze of the stone gargoyle.
Outside, unseen beyond the glass, the chatter of birds was bright and careless, carrying on as though the world beyond these walls hadn't shifted in the slightest. In here, the air was still—so still it seemed to press against the skin.
Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny stood shoulder to shoulder. No one spoke. They were close enough to feel the movement of each other's breath, yet all four were contained in their own private thoughts. There were words each of them might have said, but none dared to voice them.
A low grind broke the silence, stone turning against stone. The gargoyle moved aside, and with a smooth, whispering whir, the spiral staircase unfurled itself, winding upwards into unseen heights. But before they could ascend, soft footfalls sounded from above.
Albus Dumbledore appeared, stepping down into the corridor. His robes shimmered faintly in the shifting light, their deep blue threaded with silver that caught like starlight in motion. His eyes, that ageless blue, still held their trace of mischief, but today there was something quieter beneath it—an edge of gravity that drew their attention and held it fast.
"Good morning," he said. The words were mild, the tone gentle, but there was an absent quality to them, as though part of his mind was turned elsewhere. Then, with the smallest inclination of his head, he said simply, "Come."
They followed without question, the soft rhythm of their footsteps echoing faintly against the flagstones. The familiar walls of the upper floors slipped past, portraits peering down as they went. But soon, the path veered into territory none of them recognised—narrower passages, strange angles, and staircases that curved into shadows. The air cooled. The light from the windows thinned until it fell away altogether.
At last, the corridor ended. No door, no turning—only a flat expanse of grey wall.
Dumbledore turned to face them, the light from a single high torch falling across only half his face, the rest veiled in shadow. It lent him an odd, almost spectral stillness, as though he stood half here and half elsewhere.
"Behind you lies the world you know," he said softly. "Ahead…" His gaze lingered a moment on each of them. "Something quite different."
The wall before them began to move—not with a violent shift, but with a slow, measured change, as if the stones were waking from a long slumber. A tall, narrow door emerged, carved with twisting, ancient symbols that seemed to catch the eye differently each time one looked.
Harry felt his breath catch. The weight he knew so well—the pressure of expectations, of watching eyes, of whispered doubts—tightened across his chest. Somewhere in the back of his mind echoed the words of those who had never believed in him.
Dumbledore stepped forward, placing his hand against the door. His palm rested there lightly, but the air seemed to respond, a faint hum stirring in the space around them.
"The challenges within are not merely of strength or skill," he said. "They will test your perception… your judgement… and, above all, your ability to look inward. You may falter. You may fail. You may learn. But you must enter with your eyes open."
He looked to Hermione first—her brow furrowed, lips pressed tight, the gears of her mind already turning at full speed. Then to Ron—standing stiff, jaw clenched as if to keep fear from spilling into his face. Ginny's chin was lifted in quiet defiance, her gaze fixed straight ahead. And finally, Harry—whose heartbeat was loud enough that it seemed to fill the silence.
There was no demand in Dumbledore's eyes. Only the offer of possibility. And hope.
He stepped back.
Harry drew in a long breath. So did the others.
They stepped forward together.
No burst of light. No shout of magic. Only the soundless press of the air as they crossed the threshold.
The space inside was velvet-dark, swallowing the last thread of light from the doorway, which faded swiftly behind them until it was gone.
For a suspended moment, they could see nothing, hear nothing—only feel the strange stillness pressing in on all sides.
Then came movement. Not a rush, but a slow curling, pale silver smoke unfurling into the air from nowhere. It coiled and twisted until shapes began to emerge from the darkness.
A long table resolved before them, its surface scattered with goblets, cauldrons, and small glass vials, some tipped on their sides, some stoppered. The arrangement had no order, save for the object at its centre: a single golden vial, perfectly upright, its contents rippling with slow, hypnotic movement, as though stirred by an unseen hand.
Ginny stepped forward a pace, her eyes narrowing with curiosity. "Are we… brewing something?"
Hermione's arms were folded across her chest, though her eyes didn't leave the table. Her mouth pressed into a thin line.
"No," she said at last, her voice low, as though she were speaking partly to herself. "This is too deliberate. Too easy to read. It's meant to look like a test of potion-making… but that's not what it's testing."
Her tone carried just enough weight to make the others listen.
Before Ginny could speak, a sudden hiss split the air.
Behind the long table, thick smoke burst forth in a violent plume, curling upwards in dense whorls that caught the faint light. Instinctively, the four drew back a pace, wands half-raised. Shapes began to emerge—at first no more than shadows caught in the swirl, but slowly taking on form.
Three figures stepped forward out of the haze, though none of them seemed entirely solid. They looked as if they might dissolve back into the air at any moment.
The first was a woman of advancing years, robed plainly, her hair drawn back so tightly it seemed to sharpen the line of her jaw. She held a slender wand in her weathered hand—not raised, but ready—and there was something unyielding about her stance, a quiet refusal to bow to anyone.
Harry leaned slightly towards Ron. "Do you reckon she's Muggle-born?" he muttered.
Ron shot him a glance, his expression tightening. "Does it matter?" he replied, a thread of irritation in his voice. "You sound like Malfoy."
Harry's jaw shifted—barely—but he said nothing more.
The woman offered no greeting, no challenge. Her eyes moved between them, assessing, weighing something unseen.
The second figure took shape in the centre of the chamber, and the sight wrenched a collective breath from them. It was caught in the hideous midpoint of a transformation—skin stretching, joints twisting in impossible ways, the bones reknitting with audible cracks. The change was soundless save for those awful snaps, but its agony was palpable, a raw, unending torment that seemed to seep into the air itself.
Hermione's hand shot to her mouth. "That's—" Her voice caught before she could finish.
"—awful," Ginny murmured, her arms folding tightly across her chest.
Harry's gaze remained fixed, steady in a way that felt almost unnatural. "What did you expect?" he said flatly. "That's a werewolf mid-change."
"I know that," Hermione snapped, her voice sharp, though the sting was less at the image than at Harry's detachment.
The third figure had already emerged—a gaunt old man in a threadbare, colourless shirt, his skin sallow, his frame wasted. His eyes were hollowed by something far worse than age; there was a vacancy to them that spoke of years drained away in darkness.
"Azkaban," Harry said under his breath. "He's a prisoner."
The air shifted. From the thinning smoke rose delicate tendrils of silver, curling upward until they hung in mid-air, weaving themselves into lines of floating script:
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?
The final question hovered there, the silver letters gleaming faintly before fading into nothing. The silence it left behind was heavy enough to press against the ribs.
Ginny's brow creased. "So… we have to choose?"
"Obviously," Harry said, stepping towards the table. "One cure. One chance. The rest—well."
His eyes moved from the convulsing werewolf to the silent witch, then to the hollow-eyed prisoner. He looked, Ginny thought, as though he already knew his answer.
Ron folded his arms. "Let me guess—you'd give it to the prisoner."
Harry didn't hesitate. "Of course."
"Of course?" Hermione repeated, incredulous. "You think he's the one who deserves it most?"
Harry shrugged. "The other two? One's a half-breed. The other—"he nodded towards the woman"—is Muggle-born. Don't pretend that doesn't matter."
Ginny's voice shook—not from fear, but fury. "You don't know anything about them."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "It's called strategy. We were told to choose. I made mine. There's no right or wrong here—only the outcome that makes sense."
Hermione's voice was flint against steel. "That isn't strategy; it's prejudice. And you're dressing it up to make yourself sound clever."
A faint, cold smile touched Harry's mouth—half sneer, half dare. "Then make your choice, Granger. But don't pretend it's about being noble. This is about doing, not dithering."
The quiet that followed was taut, vibrating with words none of them spoke.
Before any of them could stop him, Harry reached forward and took the golden vial from its pedestal. The liquid shimmered faintly as it moved, its surface bending the light in hypnotic ripples. Without a pause, he strode to the prisoner and pressed it into his hands.
The man's eyes widened—not in joy, but with a startled, uncertain recognition. Still, he drank. The potion slid down his throat without resistance.
No light. No grand transformation. Only a slow, measured exhale, as though some weight—small, almost imperceptible—had been eased from his chest.
Then, with a quiet pulse, the vial was back on the pedestal, refilled, waiting—as if nothing had happened at all.
Hermione's brow knitted tightly, her eyes narrowing as she stared at the scene before them. "It… reset?" Her voice was laced with disbelief, barely more than a whisper.
Ron's gaze flicked rapidly between the prisoner and Harry, confusion and incredulity etched deep across his features. "What on earth did you just do, Harry?" His tone held a mixture of shock and frustration.
Harry turned to face them again, his expression cool, almost amused in a way that only added fuel to their rising tension. "Exactly what the room asked of me."
Ginny's eyes blazed with incredulity, her voice low and sharp. "You gave that man a chance based on nothing but your own prejudice." There was hurt woven into her words, disbelief that cut deeper than she expected.
Harry shrugged, his posture casual but unyielding. "Someone had to make a choice. You lot were too busy moralising to act."
Without waiting for a response, he strode forward towards a shadowed archway that hadn't been there moments before. The door within stood tall and dark, slightly ajar as if it had been waiting for him all along. Its hinges made no protest; the entrance seemed to welcome him as though it were a secret only he was meant to find.
Ron stepped after him, voice sharp with uncertainty. "Wait—how do you even know that door's meant for you?"
Harry paused for a heartbeat, then answered simply, voice steady. "Maybe because I was the one who acted. Maybe because I was right."
And with that, he stepped through the threshold.
The door closed behind him with a soft, final whisper, sealing the moment with a silence that felt impossibly heavy.
Hermione was the first to break the quiet, her voice uncertain and tentative. "I always thought the door wouldn't open unless we made the right choice."
"Maybe that was the right choice," Ginny murmured, though even to her own ears, the words sounded fragile, unsure.
Ron ran a hand through his hair, unsettled. "Or maybe the whole thing's meant to make us question everything—our instincts, our doubts, the choices we think we've made. Maybe there isn't a right answer at all. Just… who we really are."
Hermione crossed her arms tighter, a flicker of unease in her eyes. "Dumbledore said our perception defines the path. What if we're already failing?"
Their gazes returned to the three figures, still motionless, still waiting. The golden vial shimmered once more on its pedestal, pulsing softly with quiet expectation.
Slowly, Ginny stepped forward. She lifted the vial with gentle care, as though it might dissolve in her hands. The contents shimmered, rippling faintly, almost alive—sensing something deeper beneath her calm resolve.
She didn't hesitate. She turned to the werewolf.
Their eyes met: hers steady, anchored by quiet strength; his full of a raw, lingering pain. Without a word, she passed him the vial.
He accepted it without hesitation. A small, grateful nod was exchanged between them—a brief moment of understanding and fragile hope.
"I suppose I'll see you on the other side," Ginny said softly, the edge of nerves threading her voice. Her smile was genuine but careful, as though she held it just shy of breaking.
Without another glance, she moved toward the door Harry had entered. Her hair caught the dim light, a flicker of flame in the shadowed chamber.
The door shut behind her with a soft, deliberate click—final and resolute.
Silence stretched again. Only two remained.
Ron shifted uneasily beside Hermione, the weight of indecision settling heavily between them.
"You can go first," Hermione said, voice steady but threaded with something unspoken—worry, or perhaps the quiet need to maintain control over the little they still held.
Ron hesitated, glancing toward the door. "I can wait. Really, it doesn't bother me."
"No." Hermione shook her head firmly. "I'll go last."
Their eyes locked. In that moment, an unspoken understanding passed between them, mingled with a flicker of fear neither wished to voice aloud.
"You sure?" Ron asked, stepping slightly closer. "I mean… they seemed alright. Nothing looked bad."
Hermione drew in a slow, measured breath, her voice dropping to a whisper. "We don't know that. And besides…" She glanced at the silent, composed figure of the elderly woman who stood like a sentinel from another age. "Someone needs to be careful. This isn't a game."
Ron nodded, reluctance and resolve warring within him. After a moment, he stepped forward toward the woman.
Her lined face softened as he approached, the faintest smile touching her lips—knowing, patient.
Without a word, Ron handed her the vial.
She accepted it with quiet dignity, a gesture that seemed to settle something deep within him.
With one last look back over his shoulder, Ron squared his shoulders and stepped through the door.
And then he was gone.
And suddenly, Hermione found herself utterly alone.
A profound stillness stretched out around her—vast, reverent. She did not move at first. Instead, she simply breathed, each inhalation measured and deliberate, steadying herself against the heavy solitude pressing in on all sides.
Before her stood the three figures still waiting patiently: the prisoner, his eyes hollow and haunted; the Muggle-born witch, her hands trembling ever so slightly, betraying a fragile strength; and the creature caught in the agonising limbo of transformation—half human, half beast—his eyes wide not only with pain but with something more elusive. Perhaps hope.
Hermione stepped forward, the soft scrape of her shoes on the cold flagstones breaking the silence. Each footfall felt weighted, as though the ground itself bore the burden of her choice. Her heart thudded solemnly in her chest, a steady drumbeat underscoring the gravity of the moment.
Dumbledore's voice echoed unbidden in her mind: They will test your perception. Your judgement. Your capacity to look inward. You may falter. You may fail. Or you may learn. But you must enter with your eyes open.
She paused beside the table—its surface cluttered and chaotic, strewn with goblets dulled by age, vials mottled and stained, and warped ladles resting in no apparent order. Her eyes swept over the disorder, searching for meaning in the chaos. Gingerly, her fingers brushed against one of the chalices.
"This can't be merely symbolic," she whispered to herself. "There must be purpose here."
Her gaze flicked back to the vial in her hand. The potion it contained shimmered faintly, a soft glow that felt warm and unassuming but carried an unbearable weight. The riddle returned unbidden, the silence of the chamber, the echoes of choices already made.
Then, a thought took root and grew steadily within her mind.
What if we have all misunderstood?
What if the test was never about choosing one life over another?
Her eyes narrowed with quiet resolve.
With precise care, Hermione uncorked the vial. Her hands remained steady, even as a shiver crept along her spine. She poured the potion slowly, dividing it equally between three goblets—no more, no less.
She stepped forward with the goblets, offering them one by one. First to the prisoner, then to the old witch, and lastly to the tortured creature suspended in transformation. Each took their share silently, drinking without hesitation.
Nothing happened.
For a moment, the silence felt like a void—a weight of failure pressing down upon her.
Then, as if the world itself had cracked, a sudden, blinding surge exploded behind Hermione's eyes. She staggered back, gasping for breath, her vision fracturing into shards. The chamber dissolved completely, replaced by images—vivid, impossible, and wholly real—not mere dreams nor illusions, but moments drawn from some deeper truth.
She found herself standing by the sea, laughter carried on the salt air, the wind tangling her hair. Beside her, Ron and Ginny smiled, and Harry was alive and grinning. A small, weather-worn cottage nestled against the cliffs—offering a moment stolen from the relentless chaos beyond.
Then the vision blurred, shifting and refocusing.
Now, she saw herself again—standing with Ron and Ginny, clutching a heavy, ancient tome inscribed with the word 'Anima' in runes faded with age. Behind them lay Harry, pale but breathing in a narrow bed. Urgency echoed in their voices, though the words passed over her like whispers lost in the wind.
Were these memories? Prophecies? Possible futures?
Her breath hitched, sharp and shallow.
These were no simple visions. They were fragments of something far greater—threads woven through time, glimpses of connection rather than punishment or reward.
Bond.
The potion had not revealed consequence. It had revealed communion: the unbearable weight and the inescapable worth of lives intertwined.
Hermione blinked, and the chamber reformed around her. Yet, it felt changed—softer at the edges, as if softened by memory rather than reality.
Before her stood a door, slightly ajar. Crafted from dark, polished wood, it gleamed with a faint, inexplicable light that had no clear source. No figure awaited her beyond. No voice challenged her. No riddle lingered.
Only choice.
She hesitated, drawing in a final, steadying breath.
Then, with quiet determination, she stepped forward.
A faint pulse tingled beneath her fingertips—a subtle electric thrill coursing along her skin, as if the magic within her recognised something kindred. Possibility hummed in her bones, alive and vibrant.
The door closed behind her with a soft, unhurried sigh.
But this time, the silence left in its wake was no longer hollow.
It brimmed with everything she had given, everything she had risked, and everything she had come to understand.