The wind shrieked across the grounds—wild, cold, merciless. It tore at my robes and whipped strands of hair loose from my plait, stinging my cheeks as though the very air had turned against us. The sky itself seemed to howl in grief, carrying the faint echoes of sobs, of something irreparably broken.
Just beyond the castle walls, Professor Dumbledore's body lay still beneath the stars.
Still.
Cold.
Gone.
I could barely look. My stomach lurched violently, my whole body rebelling against the truth of it. It wasn't just sickness—I felt hollow, as though someone had reached inside me and wrenched something essential right out. I'd read about grief before. I'd thought I'd understood it. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for this.
Above us, the Dark Mark twisted and glowed, sickly green, obscene against the night. It hung there like a brand—like a promise. A threat we could never escape. I hated it. I hated it with every fibre of my being. I wanted to tear it down, to rip it from the sky.
Silence hung over the crowd. Heavy. Unnatural. I saw Hannah Abbott clinging to Ernie as though she might fall apart without him. Two Ravenclaw boys held onto each other, their faces pale and blank. Even the Slytherins—Merlin, even the Slytherins—looked lost. None of them sneered tonight. There were no clever insults, no cruel glares. Just… shock. And tears. So many tears.
Ron stood beside me, silent, trembling. His lips moved—perhaps he was trying to speak—but no sound came out. I don't think he even realised. His eyes were red, his breathing shallow. Ginny stood just behind him, fists clenched so tightly her knuckles were white, her face carved from stone. She hadn't cried. Not yet. Maybe she couldn't.
Professor McGonagall stood at the front, rigid, her hands folded tightly over her chest as though she could somehow hold herself together by sheer will. She was crying. Quietly, steadily. I had never seen her look so… fragile. And that terrified me more than anything else.
Then—
Harry stopped moving.
One moment, he was crawling towards Neville, dragging himself through the dirt. The next, he simply collapsed—as if his body had suddenly forgotten how to keep going.
I screamed.
"Harry!"
I didn't think—I just called out. Desperately, instinctively. My voice rang out across the grounds and shattered the fragile silence, but I didn't care who heard me. I just needed him to wake up. To move. To open his eyes.
But he didn't.
And suddenly I couldn't breathe. I was suffocating on the inside. My chest tightened, my legs locked in place. I couldn't run to him—I couldn't even make myself move. I was trapped inside my own body, paralysed by terror and helplessness.
Then I heard the laugh.
High. Sharp. Deliberate.
You-Know-Who.
He stepped into view with that horrible, infuriating calm—as though none of this mattered. As though Professor Dumbledore's death had been nothing more than a strategic move in some twisted game.
A Death Eater raised his wand.
Harry's limp body rose into the air like a discarded doll.
I gasped. He looked so small—so breakable. His head lolled to the side, blood trailing from his temple. Something inside me cracked, splintered, broke.
They carried him through the great doors like a prize. You-Know-Who followed, his steps unhurried, certain.
I wanted to chase after them. I wanted to hex them all into oblivion, to scream, to fight, to do something. But I couldn't. My legs wouldn't move. My mind spun uselessly, caught in some endless loop of panic and disbelief.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Not like this. Not Harry.
That was the moment everything changed.
Hogwarts—our home, our sanctuary—was no longer safe. The walls we had trusted had been breached. The heart of our world had stopped beating.
Professor Dumbledore was gone.
And Harry—our Harry—had been taken.
I would never forget his face as they lifted him. Unconscious. Bloodied. Defenceless. The image scorched itself into my memory, sharp and agonising. It wasn't right. He had always been the brave one, the strong one. And now he was alone. Utterly alone.
Someone shoved me from behind.
"Keep moving, Mudblood," a voice hissed, dripping with contempt.
The word struck me like a blow. I'd heard it before—I had learned, logically, to expect it. But this time, it wasn't just an insult. It was a promise. A promise of what was coming. A threat I could no longer brush aside.
I clenched my jaw, forcing my legs to move. My vision blurred, my throat burned, but I kept walking.
Ron was beside me.
"Where are they taking him?" he whispered, his voice small, as though he was afraid the answer might shatter him.
"They're going to hurt him," Ginny said quietly, but there was no question in her voice. Just certainty. Cold, terrible certainty.
Of course they were. That was the point, wasn't it? To break him. To make him suffer until he couldn't fight back.
My fists clenched so tightly my nails bit into my palms. My heart hammered in my chest, loud and uneven. I couldn't think properly—couldn't think at all, really. The fear was too loud. The guilt was deafening. I should have stopped it. Should have done something. I'd always believed I would. That I could. But I hadn't. I'd failed him. We all had.
We let them take him.
As we were herded back into the castle, something felt… wrong. The walls, the stone floors, the very air—it was all too cold, too still. The torches flickered faintly, casting long, trembling shadows like the castle itself was grieving. Each step I took echoed in the silence, and it made me feel hollow inside, like I was shrinking. Like I was disappearing into the vast, echoing chambers of my own fear.
Professor Dumbledore's body was still out there.
And he wasn't coming back.
The man who always knew what to do—even when the world was unraveling around us—was gone. He'd always seemed untouchable, larger than life. The steady presence at the center of everything. And now… he was simply gone. How could the world keep turning without him?
We were sent back to our dormitories, as if it were any other night.
But it wasn't.
Nothing was normal. Nothing would ever be normal again.
We climbed the stairs in silence. Even the Fat Lady didn't speak as we passed. She just looked at us—her eyes wide, her face pale, the usual sparkle of mischief gone entirely. Inside the common room, no one said a word. The few first-years huddled together on the sofas, whispering, crying. Somewhere near the fireplace, someone sobbed softly. But I couldn't sit. I couldn't bear to. I couldn't bear stillness.
I drifted to the window, staring up at the swirling clouds, the Dark Mark still glowing faintly overhead like a scar the sky couldn't heal. I kept looking for a sign, for something—a flash of movement, a signal, anything that would tell me Harry was coming back.
But nothing came.
I'd always believed the three of us would face everything together. Me, Ron, Harry. That we could overcome anything if we just worked hard enough. If we were clever enough. Brave enough. But now…
Now I wasn't so sure.
We weren't students anymore. We weren't even children, not really. We were survivors. And we'd just learned the first, cruelest lesson of war:
Hope can break.
And so can people.
We were back in Gryffindor Tower—but it didn't feel like home anymore.
The reds and golds that had always been warm, bright, safe—they looked washed out now. Dull. The fire sputtered quietly in the grate, its heat barely reaching me. Even the portraits lining the walls had gone silent. No gentle snores. No idle gossip. They just watched. Their painted eyes fixed on the Death Eater standing in the corner like a stain, like a crack in the stone that would never quite close.
The common room buzzed faintly with low whispers, the sound of people trying to hold themselves together. Fear clung to the air, thick and suffocating. I watched as students clung to each other like they might vanish if they let go. I couldn't blame them.
We weren't ready. None of us were.
No matter how many spells we knew. No matter how much we'd studied, how much we'd trained. We weren't ready for this.
Not for war.
Not for death.
The panic, the noise, the crowd pressing in—I couldn't stand it. I couldn't breathe.
So I slipped away—just a few feet, but it felt like stepping into another world. I sank to the floor in the corner, my back pressed against the wall, my arms tight around my knees. I curled in on myself, folded small, like maybe I could hold the pieces of me together if I just stayed that way long enough.
I closed my eyes.
But I couldn't shut it out.
Every time I blinked, I saw him.
Professor Dumbledore—his body still on the ground, his robes unmoving, his eyes shut forever. The most brilliant wizard I'd ever known. Dead. I couldn't stop thinking about what they'd done with him. Had they left him there? Had they—oh, Merlin—had they desecrated him? Tossed him into the Black Lake like rubbish? The thought made bile rise in my throat. I swallowed it back, biting down hard.
And Harry.
Harry was gone.
Taken. By You-Know-Who himself.
The image of him wouldn't let me go.
Harry—bloodied, unconscious, his body hanging limp in the air like a broken thing—floated endlessly behind my eyes. It played over and over, a cruel, merciless loop that tightened around my ribs until I could hardly breathe. It wasn't just fear pressing on my chest—it was guilt. Bone-deep, suffocating guilt.
I should have seen it. I should have stopped it. I should have believed him.
He told us.
He told me.
He warned me that Professor Dumbledore wouldn't be at the castle. He said Malfoy would try again, that the opportunity was too perfect to pass up. And I—I'd listened. I had. But I didn't truly believe him, did I? Not the way I should have. I thought maybe Harry was—well, being Harry. Seeing danger where there might not be any. I told myself he was tired. Overstressed. Maybe… maybe wrong this time.
But he wasn't.
And now Professor Dumbledore was dead. And Harry was gone.
I felt sick. The world spun around me, and my breathing turned fast and shallow, as though the air itself was thinning. I pressed my face to my knees, trying to block everything out. Think, Hermione. Breathe. Focus. Think.
But what was there to think about?
I didn't know where Harry was. I didn't know what You-Know-Who was doing to him. And, worst of all—I didn't know how to save him.
For the first time in my life, books and cleverness weren't enough. Logic wasn't enough.
Nothing I knew was enough.
We'd done everything right. We'd taken the Felix Felicis. We'd followed the plan. We'd fought. And still—we'd lost.
I'd failed him.
We all had.
And then I saw Neville.
He was lying across one of the sofas, his body twisted uncomfortably as though he didn't quite know how to hold himself together anymore. His shirt was drenched in blood. It soaked through the fabric, ran in thin rivulets down his sides, pooling dark and thick in the cushions beneath him.
I'd never seen so much blood.
Not from one of us.
My legs moved without asking permission, numb beneath me as I crossed the common room. The stone floor felt like ice against my knees as I dropped down beside him. My hands hovered over his chest, useless, shaking.
What spell? What potion? What do I do?
What do I do?
Neville's eyes fluttered open, unfocused, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. A weak sound escaped his throat—half-moan, half-whimper—and I flinched. It was so wrong. It wasn't supposed to happen to us. Not like this.
I'd read every healing book in the library. I'd memorised the counter-curses, annotated the diagrams, practiced my wand movements until they were perfect. But kneeling there beside Neville, watching his life spill out of him, I realised something awful:
I didn't know how to save him.
My hands trembled so violently I could barely hold my wand.
"Stay with me, Neville," I whispered, my voice cracking, fragile. "Please. Just—just hold on, okay? Stay with me."
He didn't answer. His breathing was ragged. His lashes fluttered again, but it didn't seem like he could see me.
I couldn't lose him, too.
I wouldn't.
"Ron," I croaked, forcing the words past the panic closing in on my throat. "Get something—Essence of Dittany—anything."
I heard him stumble to his feet without a word. A chair scraped across the floor. Books crashed to the ground. He didn't care. Neither did I.
I pressed my hands over Neville's wound, trying to slow the bleeding, but it just kept spilling through my fingers, hot and sticky and terrifying. I could feel it—his heartbeat, faint and fluttering beneath my palms. Merlin, I was going to lose him.
"Neville," I said again, firmer this time. "Look at me. You are not allowed to die. Do you hear me? You're not."
His eyelids fluttered weakly, too slowly. I didn't know if he'd heard me or if his body was simply shutting down.
Behind me, someone whispered, "Why did this happen?"
No one answered.
Because we didn't know. Because we had no idea what we were doing anymore. Because none of this made sense.
Everything we believed in—everything we thought we understood—had shattered.
Professor Dumbledore was dead.
You-Know-Who had walked through our school as though it belonged to him.
Harry was gone.
And we were sitting in the ruins, too broken and too afraid to put the pieces back together.
I leaned over Neville, hot tears slipping down my cheeks, falling onto his chest.
"Just hold on," I whispered again, my voice small, desperate. "Please."
That was all I could do now.
Wait.
Hope.
And try to hold on—
While everything else fell apart.
Ginny had slipped behind me at some point, her hand resting gently on Neville's ankle as though just touching him might keep him here. Her other hand was clenched tight in her lap—knuckles white, shaking. The firelight flickered across her face, painting her in trembling gold and shadow, but she didn't look like Ginny anymore. The fire in her eyes—so fierce, so stubborn—had dulled. All that was left was exhaustion. And fear.
Even Seamus—Seamus, who always had something to say, who never seemed to know when to shut up—had gone silent. He stood by the hearth, rigid, jaw clenched, eyes wide and unblinking. He looked so young all of a sudden. Like a first-year again. I realised we probably all did.
A ripple ran through the room—a shift, a gasp—and then Professor McGonagall appeared, pushing her way through the crowd, her wand already drawn, eyes sharp as steel. She knelt beside Neville in an instant, her mouth tight as she assessed the bleeding, the curse damage, the way his skin was beginning to lose colour.
"He needs medical attention," she said, quickly but firmly, rising to her full height as she turned to the Death Eater by the portrait hole—a woman with dead eyes and a smirk that made my stomach twist. "Let me take him to the Hospital Wing. Now."
The Death Eater didn't so much as blink. She tilted her head in mock consideration, her voice cloyingly sweet. "You're a professor, aren't you?" she said, slow and syrupy. "Why don't you fix him yourself? You must know how to patch up a few scrapes."
I shot to my feet too quickly. My head spun, but I didn't care. I was shaking, vibrating with fury.
"That's not a scrape!" I shouted, my voice splintering at the edges. "It's a cursed wound—he's bleeding out! He'll die!"
The woman just stared at me, unmoved. Not angry. Not amused. Just bored.
"He's breathing," she said, as if that settled it. "That's good enough."
Good enough?
Something inside me cracked open.
My fists clenched, my whole body trembling so hard I could barely keep my wand steady. I didn't even know what I planned to do. I just knew I had to do something. I couldn't stand there again, frozen, helpless, while someone else bled out in front of me.
Professor McGonagall's wand rose first. Swift. Precise.
"Stupefy!"
The spell rocketed across the room, brilliant and fast—but the Death Eater was faster. She flicked her wand lazily, and the red light ricocheted, slamming into a trophy case. Glass exploded everywhere—shards rained like knives. Someone screamed. I heard the sharp cry of a first-year and the unmistakable patter of blood hitting the floor. I didn't even know whose it was anymore.
The Death Eater grinned like it was all a game. "Is that the best you've got, Professor? Really? You lot are so predictable."
Professor McGonagall's voice was ice. "You dare endanger my students—"
She didn't finish.
BANG!
The blast knocked her clean off her feet. Smoke billowed, hot and choking. When it cleared, I saw her crumpled on the floor, her glasses cracked, blood trickling from her forehead. Her wand spun out of reach, clattering across the stone.
"Professor!" My scream tore itself from my throat. I dropped to my knees beside her, my hands fluttering uselessly over her robes. She was breathing—just barely—but her face, her usually sharp, unflinching face, looked pale and terrifyingly fragile.
I didn't know where to press. I didn't know what to fix first.
And then—
Another voice.
Cold. Precise. Controlled in a way that was somehow worse than shouting.
"What's going on, Alecto?"
A man had entered the common room, tall and severe, his dark robes settling around him like smoke. His eyes drifted over us as if we were insects, pests to be tolerated.
"That hag tried to hex me," Alecto spat, still pointing at Professor McGonagall like she was something filthy on the ground. "Over him." She jerked her head toward Neville, whose only response was a low, broken moan. His head lolled to the side like he was already halfway gone.
The man barely looked at him. "He's not dead. He'll manage."
Manage?
Ron stepped forward before I could stop him. His hands were clenched, shaking, his face burning with rage.
"He's BLEEDING TO DEATH, and you're just STANDING there? You absolute MONSTERS—"
"Ron, don't—" I reached for him, but it was useless. He wasn't listening. He never did when he was like this. His fury always ran ahead of his common sense.
Ginny rose beside him, her voice like ice this time, steady, cold.
"You don't understand," she said, her eyes sparking to life again. "If you don't let us take him, he'll die."
Alecto's lip curled. "Let him."
Her voice was pure venom.
"One less brat."
And that—
That was the line.
Professor McGonagall stirred, dragging herself up onto one trembling elbow. Her voice, though thin, held steady—a thread of steel pulled taut.
"You will… let him go."
The second Death Eater stepped forward, towering over her. His smile was soft. His voice, softer.
"We're in charge now," he said. "You don't get to make demands."
Something inside me gave way. I rose to my feet, the words tearing from me before I could stop them. My voice came out as both a whisper and a scream, strangled and desperate.
"You must let us take him," I said, my throat tight. "Please. You must. Or he won't make it."
He just stared at me.
Silent.
The quiet stretched—merciless and endless.
I couldn't stand it.
I glanced around—at Ron, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were bone white, his whole body shaking with fury. At Ginny, biting her lip so hard there was blood. At Professor McGonagall, half-conscious on the floor but still trying, still fighting for us. And at Neville—Neville, who was barely breathing now, slipping further away by the second.
I hated the silence more than I would have hated shouting. Because the silence meant they could. That they would. That nothing was stopping them, and nothing we did would matter.
We were trapped.
And Neville was dying.
The portrait hole darkened.
My heart seized.
A figure stepped inside—robes billowing, movements sharp and deliberate. Professor Snape.
The room froze.
For one suspended moment, no one moved. No one breathed. My blood turned to ice. I didn't know whether he'd come to help us or to finish what the Carrows had started. Every part of me screamed not to trust him, but my feet wouldn't move, my wand hung useless at my side.
"That's enough, Amycus," Professor Snape said. His voice was low, calm—but the kind of calm that sliced like a blade. His words cut the air cleanly, leaving no space for argument. "Take Mr. Longbottom to the Hospital Wing. Leave Professor McGonagall unharmed."
There was something in his tone—authority, yes, but more than that. Finality. A command you simply obeyed. It stopped even me.
Amycus stepped forward, jaw set, furious. "And who are you to—?"
Professor Snape's gaze swept across the room, cold and sharp, his eyes burning with something unreadable. But whatever was there—it made Amycus hesitate. It made him falter.
He said nothing more.
He didn't have to.
Professor Snape's silence was power enough.
"The Dark Lord summons you," Professor Snape added, his words crisp and dismissive, his eyes flicking to Alecto like she was dirt on his shoe. "Both of you."
For a moment, the Carrows didn't move. The tension snapped taut between us like a stretched wire.
Then Amycus muttered something under his breath, yanked Alecto by the wrist, and dragged her toward the door.
And Neville—
Neville was pulled behind them, like something broken. Like something that didn't matter.
I wanted to scream. To lunge after him. To do something. But I couldn't move. I could only watch. My feet were rooted to the floor. My voice was trapped in my throat.
The portrait hole slammed shut.
Silence.
Professor Snape didn't say a word. He didn't look at us. He just turned, his cloak sweeping behind him as he disappeared through the door. Gone. Like he'd never been there at all.
We were alone again.
But not safe.
The Gryffindor common room felt smaller now. Compressed. The walls too close. The fire crackled, but I couldn't feel its warmth. The students huddled together in quiet clusters, their whispers trembling, their eyes flicking toward the portrait hole like they expected it to open again. Some curled up tightly, arms wrapped around their knees like they could fold themselves small enough to hide from the terror.
I sat on the sofa between Ron and Ginny, but I couldn't feel the cushions beneath me. My hands were ice. I kept blinking, trying to make the room stop spinning, but it wouldn't. My heart was pounding so loudly I couldn't hear anything else.
And then—
Professor McGonagall stood.
She looked… older. Worn. Like the night had dragged the years from her all at once. Her robes were singed, dust clinging to every crease. She stood tall—she always stood tall—but her hands trembled slightly, and the lines around her mouth had deepened.
She cleared her throat. Just a small sound, but it made my stomach twist.
"You are not to leave Gryffindor Tower," she said. Her voice was steady, but I could hear it—the crack beneath it. The weight. "Under no circumstances. Do you all understand?"
No one answered. No one needed to.
She went on, slow and deliberate, like every word had been carved into her.
"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is inside the castle. Hogwarts has been breached." She swallowed hard. "For now… this tower is the safest place you can be."
For now.
Those two words landed heavier than anything else.
Because nothing was safe anymore.
Not really.
Not from him.
I felt Ron tense beside me, his whole body rigid. Without thinking, I gripped his arm, as if holding on to him might somehow hold the world together.
Then came the voices.
"We're not safe here!"
A boy—third year, I thought—near the stairs. His eyes were wide with panic, his voice cracking.
"They're everywhere!"
"They are!" someone else chimed in, breathless. "We saw them—in the corridors! Death Eaters!"
"Harry's out there!" another student shouted, their voice sharp with desperation. "He's alone—with him!"
A girl by the fire—she couldn't have been more than twelve—clutched her friend, her whispers trembling. "Please… can't you send us home?"
Professor McGonagall raised her hand. Slowly. Deliberately.
The room stilled again, the panic caught mid-air like a held breath.
Her gaze swept over us—one face, then another—as if she were memorising every one of us.
When she spoke, her voice had softened.
"I know you're frightened," she said quietly. "Believe me—I am too."
Her voice faltered. Just for a second.
And that—that broke something inside me.
Because if she was scared…
She straightened her shoulders, drawing in a steadying breath.
"Hogwarts is no longer under our control," she said. "We don't know what You-Know-Who wants. We don't know what he will do. His followers… they kill without reason. They do not ask questions. They delight in causing pain."
Her words hit like stones. Each one a weight, each one impossible to carry.
The air seemed to thin around me, pressing in, too tight, too sharp. I looked around the common room and it was like someone had drained all the colour out of it—only pale faces, wide, terrified eyes, hands clutched too tightly to wands or to each other. Some students were crying, silent, their faces buried in sleeves or friends' shoulders. Others sat completely still, like they'd already retreated somewhere far away inside themselves.
I wanted to speak.
I wanted to ask about Harry.
I wanted to scream.
But my throat was dry, raw. My mouth wouldn't work.
I couldn't stop picturing him—alone, somewhere in this castle, facing You-Know-Who. Wandless, maybe. Hurt. Or worse.
I pressed my hand to my chest, trying to slow my heartbeat. It didn't help. It felt like the whole world was crumbling around us, and there was nothing—nothing—we could do.
Professor McGonagall crossed the room to the window.
Her movements were measured, almost graceful—so steady against the rising tide of panic that she hardly seemed real. She raised her wand.
A silver flash burst from the tip.
A cat—her Patronus—leapt into existence, luminous and proud, its tail high, its ears flicking. It circled her feet, casting a soft glow across the worn floorboards. The fear didn't vanish, but it shifted. The Patronus didn't fix anything, but it made something solid in the room. It gave us something to hold on to.
I stared at it, my throat aching.
I thought of Harry. Of his stag. Of the light it used to bring. The way he would stand, strong and certain, when the rest of us couldn't.
And now—he was out there. Alone. With him.
Professor McGonagall bent her head toward her Patronus and whispered something I couldn't hear. The cat's ears twitched. It turned gracefully, leapt onto the windowsill, and vanished into the night.
A message, I realised. To the Order.
My eyes met Ron's. Then Ginny's. We didn't speak. We didn't have to. We knew what it meant.
"Are… are you leaving, Professor?" Parvati's voice trembled through the silence.
Professor McGonagall turned slowly from the window. She stood by the portrait hole, one hand resting on the frame.
She looked smaller somehow. Older. But there was still steel in her.
"I must," she said quietly. "There are other Houses. Other students. I have to see to their safety."
"But… you said it's too dangerous," Seamus blurted out, his voice tight with confusion. "You told us to stay here."
"I did," she said. There was no anger in her voice—just something unshakable. "Because you must. But I am not only your teacher. I am the deputy headmistress of this school. That means I do what is necessary. Even if it means risking my life."
The words landed like another stone in my chest.
Because she would.
She would.
She always had.
Before anyone could argue, Professor McGonagall stepped through the portrait hole. Her robes flared behind her as she vanished into the corridor.
The door swung shut with a soft thud.
And the silence that followed was unbearable.
I turned to Ron and Ginny.
Ron's face was ashen, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful. Ginny hadn't moved—her eyes were still fixed on the door, wide and unblinking. There was fear there, sharp and real, but she was too proud to let it show.
My throat felt too tight. I couldn't seem to draw in a full breath. Everything pressed down on me at once—the heavy stone walls, the weight of the tower itself, the crushing realisation that we were stranded.
Harry was still out there.
You-Know-Who was here.
Professor McGonagall had left.
And now… now we were just waiting.
Waiting for something terrible to happen.
Ginny's voice reached me faintly. "What do you think she has to do?"
She didn't look at me. She hadn't taken her eyes off the door. "What's she really going to do?"
I swallowed, my arms curling tight around myself like I could brace against the truth.
"I don't know," I admitted, my voice thin. "But it won't be simple."
The fire crackled.
Shadows flickered across the walls.
The quiet settled like a weight over us, and for a moment, it felt like we were the only ones left in the world.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, trying to steady the storm inside my head.
"We need to be ready," I said softly. "Everything's changing. It's already happening. And we can't just sit here, waiting for something worse to find us."
Ron turned to me, frowning, the crease between his brows deep. Ginny gave a single nod but said nothing.
I hesitated. "Do you remember what Harry told us? About the Patronus? It's more than just protection—it's a messenger."
Ron's brow furrowed. "Yeah, but… it's still for Dementors, right? You need a happy memory."
"Yes, but there's more to it," I said quickly, words tumbling out now. "That Patronus Professor McGonagall sent—it wasn't just to protect herself. She's calling the Order. She's summoning them. She wouldn't have done that unless it was urgent."
Ginny finally turned to face me.
Her skin was pale, but her eyes were fierce. "Then we wait for them?"
I bit my lip. "We hope they come. But we need to prepare in case they don't."
Because somewhere deep down, we all knew the truth: things were already spiralling out of control. And even the Order might not reach us in time.
I glanced at Ron.
He sat stiffly, his fists clenched, his whole body tight with frustration and fear. I could see the war in him—the need to act fighting against the urge to stay here, to protect Ginny, to protect all of us.
"We have to follow her," I blurted before I could think better of it.
The words burned in my throat, but once they were out, they settled like they belonged.
Ron gawked at me. "Are you mad?" His voice was sharp, his disbelief slicing through the air. "There are Death Eaters everywhere. We'll get caught—we'll be killed!"
"Harry's out there!" I snapped, panic rising in my chest. "We can't just sit here while You-Know-Who tortures him. We've faced worse. We've faced worse together."
"But this is different," Ginny whispered, and her voice trembled even as she tried to sound steady.
"And we don't know where Harry is," Ron added, his voice lower now, the edge of his anger giving way to something more fragile. "We could search all night and never find him."
I looked between them, my mind spinning with a thousand frantic thoughts. Yes, it was dangerous. Yes, it was reckless. But sitting here—waiting—felt worse. It felt like giving up.
"What if there's still time?" I said, and my voice broke on the words. "What if we can help? I don't want to sit here and wait for someone to tell me Harry's… gone. I can't do that. I can't go through that again."
I couldn't.
Not this time.
Ron stared at me, his mouth slightly open, his breath quick. For a long, taut moment, neither of us moved.
But then—there it was.
That flicker.
Fear still hovered around his eyes, but something else was pushing through it now—understanding. Determination. That same desperate, furious resolve I could feel burning in my own chest.
"Alright," he said, his voice low but steady. "Let's do it. We'll need the Marauder's Map and the Invisibility Cloak. I think the map's in my bed."
We moved quickly, barely speaking. The boys' dormitory felt strange now—empty, almost hollow. The beds were just shadows, cold and still, as if the room had lost something vital.
Ron's bed was, unsurprisingly, a disaster. I didn't even complain. We both dug through the covers, rifling through the mess in silence. My hands trembled, though I tried to keep them steady. I didn't want to admit—couldn't admit—how frightened I really was.
Then it struck me like a curse.
My heart lurched. "Oh no."
Ron's head snapped towards me. "What?"
"Harry took the cloak," I said, the words spilling out in a rush, panic rising like bile in my throat. "When he left with Professor Dumbledore. He told us—everything. About Malfoy, about the Room of Requirement, even about Professor Snape. He wanted us prepared. But later—when we saw him in the courtyard—he didn't have it."
Ron's face drained of colour.
I saw it—him piecing it together, all at once.
"Wait," Ginny cut in suddenly, her eyes narrowing. "Hours ago—the fight near the Astronomy Tower. That's the last time I saw the cloak. Maybe he left it there."
Ron gave a small nod, his jaw tight. "Alright. Then that's where we go. Merlin help us if the Death Eaters are still patrolling."
He hesitated. "Any Felix Felicis left?"
I shook my head. "No. We used it all."
Ginny shoved her hand into her robes, searching frantically. Then—her breath caught. She pulled out a small glass vial, its surface glinting faintly in the low light.
Her eyes lit up. "Wait—I've still got the vial. Just a few drops."
"There's not much," she warned quickly, her fist closing around it. "Only enough for one of us."
Without thinking, I reached for it. "I'll take it."
The potion was warm on my tongue. It slid down like sunlight—soft but powerful—chasing away the fog in my chest. It didn't erase the fear. It just made it smaller, more distant.
Courage.
Clarity.
I felt steadier. Focused.
Before I even understood why, I blurted, "Dobby!"
The name burst out of me like a spell, like I'd been holding it in my bones all along. It wasn't logic—it was something deeper. A pull. A certainty.
Ron and Ginny both jumped, staring at me like I'd gone mad.
"What?" they yelped together.
"No, Hermione," Ginny said quickly, her voice desperate, as if I'd suddenly forgotten the plan. "We have to go to the Astronomy Tower. You just said—"
But I didn't have time to answer. There was a crack—loud, sharp, electric.
Dobby appeared at the foot of the bed.
He looked so small, his thin arms trembling, his enormous eyes blinking rapidly at us. His long fingers twisted together nervously. He looked startled—but hopeful.
My chest ached so fiercely I thought it might splinter. I dropped to my knees so we were eye to eye.
"Harry Potter's friend has called for Dobby?" he whispered, like he wasn't quite sure he could believe it.
"Yes," I said, my voice thick with urgency. "We need your help, Dobby. It's important. It's about Harry."
His wide, darting eyes settled, just slightly. His expression softened into something quiet.
"Is it about Harry Potter, miss?" he asked, his voice trembling but full of fierce loyalty. "Dobby can feel… his friends are missing him very much."
My throat closed up. I could only nod.
Ron stepped closer, his voice tight. "Have you seen him, Dobby? Please—we need to know if he's alright."
Dobby's gaze flicked between us.
Then—he nodded. A small, solemn nod that hit me like a fist.
"Dobby knows, sir," he said softly. "Dobby knows where Harry Potter is."
I spun toward Ginny, her face pale and drawn.
"Where is he?" she asked, her voice stretched tight with dread. "Is he alright?"
Dobby's eyes filled with tears, his long fingers tugging at the edge of his ragged tie.
"Harry Potter is… he is unconscious," he said, his voice trembling. "He is in the house of serpents."
I froze.
The house of serpents.
The words twisted in my chest.
"The house of—" I began, but Ron cut me off.
"Slytherin?" he spat, his fists clenching at his sides. His voice cracked, furious and afraid. "Why would they take him there?"
Before we could react, Dobby let out a strange, desperate cry—and suddenly started banging his head against the bedpost with sharp, hollow thuds.
"No—stop!" I gasped, scrambling toward him. I dropped to my knees and seized his thin wrists, pulling his small, trembling hands away from the wood. "Please, Dobby, don't."
He stilled, panting hard, his enormous green eyes wide and wet. Shame clung to his face like soot.
"They are planning something awful, miss," he whispered, his voice trembling. "The Slytherins… they are not kind. Dobby heard them. They are plotting. Dobby wants to help—but—oh, Dobby is so afraid."
Panic clawed at me, rising too quickly, but I forced it down. I had to stay calm. For Dobby. For Harry.
"What are they going to do?" Ron asked, his voice rough.
But Dobby only shook his head, and then—he collapsed. He curled into himself on the cold stone floor, sobbing so loudly it hurt to hear. Great, broken sobs that filled the room and echoed off the walls. He rocked back and forth, whispering words I couldn't understand, like he was trapped in some private nightmare.
I reached for him, my hands hovering uselessly in the air. I wanted to comfort him, but I didn't know how.
"Dobby," I said softly, my throat tight. "You said something terrible's going to happen. Please—you have to tell us."
But he couldn't.
Whatever he'd heard had shattered him.
I glanced at Ron, but he looked just as lost as I felt—his wide eyes pleading for answers I didn't have.
Then Ginny knelt down on Dobby's other side. She spoke softly, her voice calm, gentle in a way mine couldn't be just now.
"If you can't tell us, Dobby… maybe you can help in another way?"
Dobby sniffled. Slowly, he looked up at her. I saw something flicker behind his tears—a sliver of bravery, something small but bright. He nodded, wiping his nose with his sleeve.
"Dobby will do anything for Harry Potter's friends," he said fiercely, his voice steadier now despite the tears.
"We think his Invisibility Cloak is still in the Astronomy Tower," Ginny said quickly. "Can you go there? Can you find it for us?"
The smallest ember of hope sparked in my chest. The cloak. We needed it—it was more than protection. It was possibility. It was survival.
Dobby nodded, his ears flopping with the motion. "Dobby will find it, miss," he said, his mouth pulling into a wobbly, determined smile.
"Be careful," I blurted, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. Fear made it come out like an order. "The castle isn't safe. Death Eaters could be anywhere."
He met my gaze, steady now. "Dobby will be careful," he promised.
And with a loud crack, he vanished.
The silence that followed was crushing. I could still feel the warmth of where he'd been.
Ron exhaled shakily, dragging his hand through his hair. "What if they catch him?" he whispered.
I stared at the spot where Dobby had stood, my heart pounding so hard it ached. "He's clever," I said, but my voice trembled. "He'll be careful."
But the truth was—I didn't know.
We stood there, the three of us, in the quiet dormitory, surrounded by stillness and shadows. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
"He's really unconscious?" Ginny's voice finally broke the silence, soft and trembling, like she wasn't sure she wanted the answer. "They've just… left him somewhere in Slytherin?"
I nodded slowly, my throat burning. "That's what Dobby said." I swallowed hard. "And if he's unconscious… he can't defend himself."
The words stung as I said them, heavy and cold.
But there wasn't time for comforting lies. Not anymore.
Ron's fists clenched at his sides, his whole body trembling with contained rage.
"What sort of people do that?" he snapped. "What are they even planning?" His voice cracked—just a little—but I heard it. I felt it. It made my stomach twist painfully.
"I don't know," I murmured, my throat tight. "But if Dobby's too scared to even say it out loud… then it's worse than we can imagine."
My thoughts were spinning, slipping through my fingers too fast to catch. Were they cursing Harry? Holding him for You-Know-Who? Using him as bait? Or was it something worse—something personal? My pulse thudded harder, fluttering beneath my palm as I pressed my hand against my chest, desperate to calm it, but the panic only rose higher.
Ginny's eyes were wide and glassy. She was biting her lip so hard I thought she might draw blood.
"Hang on—" Ron's voice broke through the fog. He turned on the spot, frowning as he scanned the room. "Is it just me, or… are all of Harry's things gone?"
The words hung there, not sinking in right away. But when they did, it was like a stone had dropped into the centre of me, dragging me under.
I spun towards Harry's bed.
Empty.
His blanket—gone. The usual pile of crumpled robes—gone. No books, no stray quills, not even his old Sneakoscope that always sat half-buried on his nightstand. His trunk. Hedwig's cage. His Firebolt.
Gone.
"They've taken everything," I whispered, as if saying it quietly might make it less true. "Even his broom."
Ron's face twisted in disbelief. "But—when? We just got back, didn't we?"
"Dobby said he was in Slytherin," Ginny said softly, her voice so faint it almost didn't reach me. "Maybe they moved his things there, too?"
The thought made me sick—but it made horrible, perfect sense. Isolate him. Cut him off from us. Strip away everything familiar. Everything that made him feel like himself.
But why?
Why Slytherin?
I hugged my arms tightly around my chest, trying to steady the sickening weight of it all. My heart wouldn't slow down.
"Slytherin's You-Know-Who's house, isn't it?" Ron muttered. "None of them would stop him. They'd help him hide Harry. Or—or do whatever they're planning."
His words landed like cold stone. I stared at Harry's empty bed, my throat burning.
"You and Harry went down there once," I said, my voice quiet and distant. "In second year. When you used Polyjuice Potion."
Ron blinked, like he hadn't expected me to remember.
"Yeah," he muttered. "We only made it to the common room. It was horrible. Greenish light, cold stone walls, snakes carved everywhere. No windows. No warmth. Nothing welcoming."
Ginny frowned. "Wait—you actually went inside the Slytherin common room? You never told me that."
Ron flushed slightly. "We were trying to find out who the Heir of Slytherin was, alright? Wasn't exactly a sightseeing trip."
He rubbed the back of his neck, almost sheepish. "There's nothing special about it. It's just a dungeon with chairs."
But that was what made it worse, wasn't it?
That awful, soulless place. Cold, dark, ancient. A place built to keep secrets. And that's where Harry was now.
Alone.
The image slammed into me—Harry, unconscious, crumpled on cold stone, surrounded by people who'd just as soon see him dead. No one to protect him. No one to comfort him. Just silence. Just cold.
Something inside me cracked.
I wasn't just frightened anymore.
I was furious.
"He can't stay there," I whispered, barely able to push the words past the lump in my throat. "Not again. Not in that place."
Ron turned toward me, his brow creased. He just stared for a moment, like he was weighing whether I really meant what I'd said.
"So what are we supposed to do?" he asked at last, his voice taut with strain. "March into Slytherin and ask them to hand him back? You-Know-Who could be down there right now, Hermione."
I held Ron's gaze. "What if we used Polyjuice again?" I asked slowly, choosing every word with care. "If we had the right disguises, we might be able to get inside. Blend in. Learn what they're planning."
His expression twisted. "You're not serious. Hermione, that potion takes weeks to brew."
"Not if we already have what we need," I said, steadying my voice. "I've got ingredients left. In my beaded bag. And Ginny's been helping me with advanced potion work."
Ginny looked at me, uncertain. "I have… but nothing like this. Hermione, last time we tried doing something—Umbridge caught us. And Harry was hurt. We all were."
I nodded, swallowing hard. She wasn't wrong. But this wasn't about mischief or breaking rules anymore—this was war.
Ron crossed his arms, his mouth a tight line. "Even if we do get inside, what then? We'll be surrounded by Slytherins who'd turn us in the second they see us. And Death Eaters. Maybe even…" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. The words You-Know-Who were already in the room.
A cold shiver passed through me. I could feel the pulse in my fingertips, in my throat, too fast and too loud. I gripped the bedpost, grounding myself.
"I know it's not safe," I said, quieter now but firmer. "But Harry's down there, Ron. Alone. Defenceless. Maybe dying. And we're up here talking in circles." My voice cracked. "Don't you want to help him? Don't you care?"
His expression shifted. Just a flicker. A little of the stubbornness faded.
"Of course I care," he said, voice low and rough. "But Dumbledore's gone. The Order isn't here. It's just us, Hermione. And if we go down there, we might not come back."
That truth settled over us like fog. But I wasn't ready to give in.
"We're not completely alone," Ginny said suddenly. Her voice was small, but strong. "Dobby's still with us. He knows every passage in the castle. If anyone could find a way into the Slytherin common room without being seen—it's him."
Ron blinked. "You think… he could actually get us in?"
"He's already risked everything for Harry," I said. I could still see his trembling hands, the fierce loyalty behind his fear. "He would help us. All we have to do is ask."
For a few seconds, none of us spoke. But the silence didn't feel empty. It felt… charged. Like the beginning of something. A real plan. Risky, yes—but something.
Then Ron's brow furrowed. "What's that on the floor?"
He nodded toward a dark shape half in shadow near Ginny's feet.
I followed his gaze—and felt it. That unmistakable prickling sense. This is important.
Ginny crouched, frowning. "This must be what I picked up when Harry collapsed," she murmured. "It must've slipped from his hand. There was something else too…"
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a locket. Dull gold, heavy, ugly. The chain curled around her fingers like it didn't want to be touched.
"It looks important," she said cautiously, holding it out.
Ron leaned closer. "What is it?"
"Some kind of necklace?" Ginny guessed, but her eyes were already on the parchment. Her brow creased as she read, then—
"It's about a Horcrux," she whispered.
My heart nearly stopped.
"What?" I breathed. "Let me see that."
I snatched the parchment, trying not to show how badly my hands were shaking. But there it was. The word Horcrux, written plain as day. And beneath it, a signature: R.A.B.
"R.A.B.?" Ron said behind me. "Who's that supposed to be?"
"What's a Horcrux?" Ginny asked, blinking.
"Shh!" I hissed sharply, my head snapping up toward the door. The dormitory was still—too still—but I suddenly felt watched. Exposed.
Ginny blinked at me, startled. "Why? What's wrong with saying it?"
"Because it's not supposed to be public knowledge," I said quickly, lowering my voice. "It's dark magic. Terribly dark. The worst kind. Harry and Professor Dumbledore were researching them—secretly."
I folded the parchment and shoved it into my bag. "This locket—it could be one."
Ginny stared down at it in her hand, a look of quiet dread settling over her features. But she didn't pull back. She didn't drop it.
"We need to talk about this," she said. "You'll explain it to us, won't you?"
"Yes," I said. "But not here. Not now."
There were too many shadows creeping along the walls. Too many secrets pressing in on us. And not nearly enough time.