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This story is a collaboration work between Avoranger and Cal the Wandcrafter!

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Daphne Greengrass stirred awake to a sensation that slithered through her veins like a serpentine force, coiling around her being. It was an unfamiliar feeling, one she had never experienced before. Her body felt refreshed, rejuvenated, and inexplicably whole, as if she had been reborn. She rubbed her eyes, disoriented, and peered out of the window, squinting against the sunlight that streamed through the curtains like a thousand fiery swords. Had she ever opened the curtains so wide?

As she rose from her bed, a strange feeling settled over her like a swarm of biting insects. Something was amiss. Her room seemed different, somehow. The air tasted off, like a stale perfume lingering in the musty corners of an abandoned mansion. She frowned and scanned the room, taking in the details with a keen eye.

Where her bookcase once stood, a porcelain white cupboard loomed like a ghostly apparition. Butterflies fluttered down its length, their wings painted with vivid hues of blue and gold, making a knot twist in Daphne's stomach. The walls were no longer a light cream shade, instead, they were drenched in a bright, royal purple that made Daphne wince at their jarring intensity. Her head twisted around the room, only to stop dead in her tracks as a poster caught her eyes.

The poster.

It was her fiance, looking a lot younger, flying on a broom like a daredevil, his garish red Gryffindor robes fluttering in the wind like a flock of fiery birds, his emerald eyes fixed on the small golden snitch. A blush crept onto her face like a wildfire, scorching her cheeks. She could've sworn she had destroyed the poster before Harry had first visited her home.

Her heart stilled, like a bird caught in a hunter's trap. This was her room, no doubt. She had lived here for several years, just not recently. A chill slithered down her spine, making her shiver. What had happened to her? And where was she now?

A deluge of memories from the previous day flooded Daphne's mind like a torrential storm, and her heart raced like a wild stallion as she recalled the mission with Harry. They had been tracking a dangerous suspect who had set off a suicide bomb, and they had both perished in the explosion. The pain and horror of that moment lingered like a festering wound, gnawing at her soul.

So how was she here, in her bedroom at Greengrass Manor, unscathed and alive? It was a question that defied all logic and reason, a mystery that chilled her to the bone. Daphne quickly made her way to her walk-in closet, hoping to find some answers in the enchanted mirror she kept there. As she stepped closer to the mirror, a gasp escaped her lips. The reflection that stared back at her was almost unrecognisable. She looked younger, as if time had reversed itself and taken her back to a time when she was just a girl on the cusp of womanhood.

Her once-toned frame, sculpted by years of intense exercise with her fiance, was now gone. The defined muscles in her legs and stomach had all but vanished, leaving behind a softness that she had long forgotten. And then there was her height - nearly 5 cm had disappeared, leaving her feeling small and vulnerable.

Gone was the slight tan she had worked so hard to acquire over the years, replaced by an almost porcelain complexion that she had once considered a curse. Her blonde hair was longer than she normally wore it, cascading down past her shoulders and draping onto her smaller chest.

It was like looking at a ghost of herself, a memory that had been locked away in the deepest corners of her mind. But now it was back, staring at her with hauntingly familiar eyes and a pale complexion. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. That this wasn't just a trick of the light or a temporary glitch in reality. "How? What the..." she trailed off, her mind reeling like a broken carousel. "It can't be true… am I in the past?" she muttered to herself, frantically trying to make sense of the situation. Then she remembered the object she had discovered at work, the time-turner she had confiscated for being improperly stored. "Shit, I never took it out of my purse! But this isn't how time-turners work!" On instinct, her hand went to her side, looking for her purse - where the time-turner should have been - before realising in her reflection her attire was a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt she vividly remembered as one of her favourite outfits from her school years. She rubbed her temples, feeling a headache blooming like a poisonous flower in her skull.

Before she could process any further, her mother's voice interrupted her thoughts, and she turned to see her mother standing in the doorway.

She paused speechless at the sight in front of her, incapable of believing her own eyes. A torrent of emotions pounded in her heart as she was petrified at the visage of the angle of a woman before her, and it took all of her emotional control to not burst out in tears.

The platinum strands of her mother's hair glimmered in the sunshine cascading across the bedroom, the subtle grey streaks that had threaded through her locks nearly invisible in the almost silver sheen of her hair. Her eyes, a stormy grey hue, sparkled with unshed tears that threatened to spill at any moment. While her father had passed down his striking blue sapphire eyes to her, her mother's had always been more subdued and storm grey, yet no less mesmerising. And then there was their figures - in the future, Daphne's sporty, toned, and curvy body was a far cry from her mother's tall, petite, yet busty frame.

As she took in her mother's appearance, Daphne noticed the faint lines etched into her skin. The contrast to the last time they had seen each other was stark. Back then, the war had left its mark on her mother, etching lines of worry and fear onto her face. But now, it was something else entirely that caused her such pain. Despite her youthful appearance, her mother's eyes were ringed with a sadness that Daphne had never seen before. But upon seeing Daphne up, relief flooded her mother's face like a sunrise breaking through the storm clouds as she saw that Daphne was unharmed. The room felt like a trap, suffocating her with its strangeness, and Daphne longed to escape its claustrophobic grip.

Daphne's voice came out like a soft whisper, as if she was afraid of disturbing the thick blanket of silence that enveloped the room. "Good morning, Mother," she said weakly, feeling like a child again, unable to come up with a better response.

Her mother's face lit up like a sunflower, relief flooding her features like a wave crashing against the shore. But beneath the surface, there was a hint of worry, a nagging sensation that refused to be ignored.

"Daphne, you're awake!" Her mother exclaimed, her words dripping with emotion. She moved towards her daughter like a hurricane, her arms open wide, ready to embrace her. Daphne furrowed her brow, noticing the unusual tone in her mother's voice. It was as if something terrible had happened, something that her mother was trying to hide.

"I am," Daphne responded, her words slow and cautious, like a tortoise poking its head out of its shell. Her mother's embrace was like a vice, squeezing the air out of her lungs, leaving her gasping for breath. She felt as if she was drowning, suffocating in a sea of emotion.

"Are you okay, Mom?" Daphne inquired, her fingertips tracing the spot where her mother's hand had rested. It was an odd gesture, one that she had never witnessed before. Her mother's eyes were red-rimmed, tears threatening to spill over at any moment.

"I should be the one asking you that," her mother corrected, her voice trembling with emotion. She took a seat beside Daphne's bed, her body vibrating with an energy that was hard to ignore. "How are you feeling? You almost gave me a heart attack! Please don't ever scare me like that again!" Her scolding tone softened into one of sadness, her words like a knife twisting in Daphne's heart. "I'm not ready to lose you," she sobbed, her tears like tiny diamonds, shining in the light.

Daphne stood frozen in place, staring at her mother with disbelief. What had happened to make her mother so distraught? It was unlike her to be so emotionally vulnerable. The room was suffocating, like a tiny box with no way out. The air was thick with tension, like a rope stretched tight, ready to snap.

Finally, Daphne forced herself to sit on the edge of the bed, like a soldier facing the enemy. "I'm not going anywhere, Mom," she reassured her mother with a cheerful smile, though uncertainty gnawed at her insides. "See? I'm fine!" Her hand found her mother's, squeezing it gently, like a lifeline in a stormy sea.

Daphne's heart raced as she watched her mother weep uncontrollably. The tears flowed like a raging river, threatening to drown them both. She probed tentatively, trying to make sense of her mother's distress. It was as if something catastrophic had happened, and Daphne braced herself for the worst.

"What the hell happened, mother?" she demanded, the fear and confusion evident in her voice. The silence stretched out, broken only by her mother's ragged breathing as she struggled to contain her emotions.

"It was like a nightmare, my dear Daphne," her mother began, her voice trembling. "Do you not remember what happened last night?" Daphne shook her head, the memory elusive.

Her mind reeled with the possibilities. Had she been cursed, poisoned, or worse? The uncertainty gnawed at her insides, threatening to consume her. "What happened to me, mother?" Daphne pleaded silently, hoping for answers.

But her mother's answer was as terrifying as it was unexpected. "Last night, my dear, you were gravely ill. Your father was in a state of panic, and Astoria was crying hysterically." She paused and placed a hand on her daughter's leg. "We were afraid we would lose you," she revealed, her voice thick with sorrow. The words hung in the air like a death knell, sending a shiver down Daphne's spine.

Daphne's heart lurched as her mother's words sank in. Gravely ill. The phrase echoed in her mind like a death knell, and she felt a chill crawl up her spine. The events of the night before were a blur, as if part of her brain knew it to be true, but something deep in her soul screamed that it was not, like a disjointed jigsaw puzzle with none of the pieces willing to fit together.

Her mother's tears had subsided, but her eyes were red and puffy, and her voice trembled as she continued. "You were burning up with fever, my love. Your body was wracked with convulsions, and we couldn't do anything to ease your suffering."

Daphne's mind raced, trying to comprehend what her mother was saying. She couldn't remember feeling ill, but the evidence was undeniable. She searched her body for any lingering signs of illness, but all she found was a dull ache in her head.

"How long was I...like that?" Daphne asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Almost the entire night, my dear," her mother replied, a hint of relief in her voice. "But then, just before dawn, you suddenly went still. It was as if some unseen force had drained the illness from your body, leaving you weak but alive."

Daphne shuddered at the mental image - what kind of magic had she been subjected to? She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Her mother's words had taken her breath away, leaving her gasping for air.

"I'm just glad you're still with us," her mother continued, taking Daphne's hand in hers. "We love you, Daphne. Never forget that."

"Are you certain that you are feeling well?" her mother asked, her concern etched on her face.

"I am sure, mother," Daphne snapped, frustration lacing her words. "Would I be sitting here talking to you if I wasn't?"

Daphne's heart plunged into a freefall at the news, the weight of the situation crashing down upon her like a ton of bricks. But despite the gravity of the situation, she couldn't help but feel oddly detached, like she was watching the scene play out from behind a thick pane of glass.

Before her mother could provide any further explanation, the door to the room exploded open, and her father stormed in, dragging a scruffy-looking man behind him. The healer's clothes were rumpled and stained with what looked like dried blood, and his eyes were sunken and rimmed with dark circles. Daphne couldn't help but wonder how long they had been up, and what horrors they had been forced to endure.

"Daphne?!" Her father's voice was hoarse, his eyes bulging out of their sockets as he took in the sight before him. "But how...you were..."

He trailed off, at a loss for words as he stared at his daughter, who was now sitting upright and chatting as though nothing had happened. Daphne could sense the tension in the room ratcheting up a notch, and she knew that someone would have to explain things soon.

"Father," she said, her voice steady despite the tumultuous emotions swirling inside her. Hopefully, she would soon be able to gather the answers she needed.


Daphne's mind was a tempest, the storm of her thoughts lashing against the shore of her consciousness. She tried to piece together the events that had led her to this moment, to this body. It was as if she was trapped in a nightmare, one that she couldn't wake up from.

The healer had told her she was in perfect condition, and their words brought a measure of relief to her psyche, but Daphne could see the worry etched on her parents' faces. She couldn't blame them; seeing their child in such a state was bound to send even the bravest of souls into a spiral of worry. The healer had been a godsend, and his assistance had allowed her to recover.

She needed to know the year, to understand the landscape of this alien world. She called for Jo, her house-elf, and implored her to fetch the newspaper, dreading the confirmation of what she already suspected.

As she read the headlines, her blood began to boil. The media was relentless in their pursuit of Harry, determined to paint him as a liar. Daphne felt the urge to destroy the paper, to lash out at the injustice of it all. But she held herself back, remembering that The Prophet had smeared Harry and Dumbledore for a few years back in the day, so the headlines didn't help narrow it down by much more than she could determine by her surroundings. Focusing on why she had asked for the paper in the first place, she carried on.

As she combed through the pages, her heart sank. It was the year when Harry and Dumbledore had been accused of lying about Voldemort's return. Daphne cursed under her breath, her frustration boiling over. She knew it was going to be a tough year, one that would test her resolve, but she was determined to do whatever she could to help Harry.

Daphne collapsed onto the floor of her closet, the weight of her thoughts pressing down on her. "Oh Harry," she whispered into the darkness, "what have we gotten ourselves into?"


The dining room, a cramped and gloomy space within Sirius' abode, seemed to swallow the whispers of the gathered. Harry sat in an uneasy silence, his nerves frayed as flickering candles cast long, menacing shadows across their faces. The late hour only added to the mounting tension, and the darkness outside pressed against the windows like a malevolent force.

The air was thick with the scent of fear and uncertainty, suffocating in its intensity, as they discussed their next move in the war against the dark lord, Voldemort. Sirius spoke gravely, his voice a low rumble that reverberated off the walls. "It looks like the meeting at the ministry will be attended by all members of the Wizengamot."

Harry's forehead creased in confusion as he exclaimed, "I don't understand! What does the Ministry of Magic want from me?" Sirius shrugged nonchalantly, his face obscured by the dancing shadows.

"You'll find out soon enough, Harry," he said, his voice a whisper. "But take a look at this." Motioning to Shacklebolt, he passed a newspaper to Harry. Reluctantly, Shacklebolt handed over the newspaper, and Harry snatched it from him in a bewildered daze. As he perused the slanderous headlines about himself and Dumbledore, his eyes widened in shock. The accusations were vile, their implications damning.

"He also attacked Dumbledore," Harry heard the others murmuring in hushed tones behind him as he read the paper in disgust.

"The Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, is using all his powers to silence those who believe that the Dark Lord has returned," continued Sirius, his voice growing more serious. "He's afraid that Dumbledore is after his job."

"Why?" Harry asked in disbelief, his voice rising. The newspaper felt like a hot coal in his hands, and he almost tossed it into the fireplace if he hadn't held himself back.

"He thinks Dumbledore is a threat," chimed in Remus Lupin, his voice heavy and tired, matching his face perfectly.

"That's insane! No one in their right mind would believe..." Harry protested, but he was cut off by Sirius, his voice low and dangerous.

"Exactly! Fudge is out of his mind with fear." Sirius' words hung heavy in the air, his voice a low rumble that echoed through the room. "Fear clouds people's judgement, Harry. The last time Voldemort was in power, he destroyed almost everything we held dear. And now that he's back, I fear the Ministry will do whatever it takes to avoid facing this terrifying truth." Harry's heart raced as he listened to Sirius speak, his words painting a grim picture of what was to come. "We believe Voldemort wants to rebuild his army," he said, his eyes dark with concern. "Fourteen years ago, he had a vast following, not just among wizards, but all manner of dark creatures."

Harry gasped, his mind racing with fear. The thought of Voldemort with an army was a horror beyond imagining. But Sirius wasn't finished.

"He's currently recruiting heavily, and we'll be doing the same. But that's not all he wants," Sirius hesitated, his words measured. "We believe Voldemort may be after something." Moody growled menacingly, but Sirius paid him no mind. "Something he didn't have back then," he said, deliberately casual.

Harry's mind raced with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last. "Like a weapon?" he guessed, his voice low and uncertain.

But before anyone could answer, Molly Weasley interjected in her overbearing motherly tone. "That's enough! He's still a child! He does not need to be bothered with this, it is a fight for adults!" she scolded, wrapping her arms around Harry in a suffocating embrace.

Harry bristled with irritation, his desire to fight burning bright within him. He wanted to be part of the fight, not coddled like a baby. "Good!" he exclaimed, breaking free from Molly's embrace. "I want to join! If Voldemort raises an army, I want to fight him!" His words hung heavy in the air, his resolve unshakable.

Sirius' grin spread across his face, victorious in his assumption that Harry would want to join the fray. The tension grew thick, and just when things were reaching a boiling point, Harry plummeted off his seat and thrashed violently on the floor. The cacophony of screams echoed throughout the room, piercing the air like a thousand knives.

Sirius leaped to Harry's side, his fingers gripping the boy tightly as he writhed in agony. "Fetch Pomfrey! Fetch Pomfrey!" he howled in a panic. The muscles in his face contorted with fear, and then he added, "And get Dumbledore! Now!"

Arthur Weasley sprang into action, casting floo powder into the fireplace as he bellowed for aid. Chaos erupted around them, but Sirius remained unwavering in his focus on Harry, praying with all his might for the boy to pull through.

Harry's eyes bulged with terror, his gaze fixed vacantly on the ceiling. He felt as though his body had been set ablaze, consumed by a scorching pain that seared from his scar. It was as though someone had taken a hatchet to his skull, splitting it into two. He wriggled and writhed, his agony escalating with every passing moment.

Then, all at once, the pain began to abate. Harry's scar ruptured, and thick, viscous blood spewed out of the wound. The odour was putrid, like corpse rot and sewage, and Sirius gagged as he caught a whiff of it. Harry unleashed a piercing shriek before he fell into unconsciousness.

"What in the devil's name is happening?" Sirius bellowed, his eyes wide with terror and confusion. He rallied his composure and scooped Harry up in his arms, carrying him into the nearest empty room - the very one he had originally intended to be Harry's private quarters before the Weasleys intervened - without so much as sparing a word for Molly as she demanded that Harry be taken to the room he shared with Ron.


The atmosphere crackled with tension and fear, thick enough to slice with a knife. Hermione's heart thundered against her ribs, tears streaking down her face as she grappled with the weight of the past few minutes. Ron clung to her like a lifeline, his embrace tight enough to leave bruises.

The dining room was filled with chaos when Harry collapsed, his body shaking uncontrollably as he hit the ground. Hermione had never felt so helpless as she watched her best friend convulse, his eyes rolling back in his head

"I'm sure he'll be okay," Ron muttered, his voice hollow in the charged air.

Hermione's response was choked, barely above a whisper. "How can you be so sure? Saw it yourself, it had to have been bad!"

They had vaguely been aware of the woosh of the floo activating, and Madam Pomfrey, followed by Professor Snape and Dumbledore, all but sprinting up the stairs three at a time in a rush to get to Harry, and they followed shortly after when the area cleared. When the two arrived in the hallway outside Harry's room, shouting rang out as Sirius's voice growled in anger as an unseen force pushed him outward into the hall where Remus already was standing as the door slammed shut. Tersely, they walked over and met eyes with Remus, who nodded with a forced smile. Silently, they took up the wall opposite, and joined in the vigil.

The tension in the hallway was palpable as they waited for news of Harry's condition. Everyone was on edge, unsure of what was happening to their friend. Hermione paced back and forth outside the room, her hands twisting in her hair as she tried to come up with a solution.

Ron sat near her on the floor, his eyes locked onto the door to the bedroom as if willing it to open. Apparently, it was magically locked, as Sirius stood guard beside its side like a fierce dog, his eyes scanning the corridor outside for danger. Beside him, Remus Lupin looked just as on edge, and also equally as irritated.

It felt like an eternity before the door swung open, and the two adults rushed in before anyone could stop them, leaving the teens behind. As the two men crossed the threshold, they nearly collided with the headmaster, flanked by Snape and Madam Pomfrey. A sense of foreboding clung to the group as Sirius hurried where Harry lay. Harry looked so small and fragile, his skin unnaturally pale against the white sheets. Madam Pomfrey was bustling around him, checking his pulse and running diagnostic spells.

Sirius scowled at the sight of Snape, his animosity palpable in the air. Remus murmured something in his ear, and he took a deep breath before grudgingly allowing them to enter the room.

With a wave of Snape's wand, the door closed behind them with a resounding thud, and Hermione and Ron rushed forward, desperate to hear what was happening inside. The air was thick with tension, every second stretching out like an eternity as they waited for news of their friend.


Sirius Black stood resolute by Harry's bedside, his tall frame casting a protective shadow over his godson's small body. His eyes were fixed on Harry's face, watching over him with a fierce determination that could not be swayed. Even the great Albus Dumbledore, the wizarding world's revered leader, couldn't make him budge.

"You had no right to make me leave his side, Albus! You had no right to lock me out of this room!" Sirius snarled, his voice low and dangerous. His words sliced through the air like a sharpened blade, cutting off Snape's spiteful remarks before they had a chance to spill out. Madam Pomfrey intervened, standing by Sirius's side like a loyal soldier.

"Let Mr. Black stay by his side, he is family," she pleaded, her eyes brimming with tears as she fought to keep her emotions in check. She cast a series of spells over Harry's body, searching for clues to the cause of his convulsions. Dumbledore waited patiently, his heart heavy with concern.

The room was silent except for the sound of Madam Pomfrey's spells and Harry's laboured breathing. The boy was lying on a rather spartan bed, his thin frame wracked with pain. His face was twisted in a grimace, his skin pale and clammy, and his body small and fragile, like a bird with a broken wing. And the entire time he was as till as a corpse, as if the life had drained and rigour mortis had begun to set in.

Madam Pomfrey's results were inconclusive, leaving the group in a state of anxious uncertainty. Dumbledore stepped forward, his wand at the ready as he cast a series of detection charms over Harry's body. His face grew grave as he detected something amiss - an unknown activity within Harry's scar. He knew what this meant, and was scared of the possibility ever since a certain 12 year old boy had emerged from the chamber of secrets clutching a diary and a sword.

"It seems that Voldemort is attempting to invade Harry's mind," Dumbledore explained to the worried onlookers. His voice was strained with fear, his mind racing with the implications of what he had just discovered. "We must act quickly to prevent any further damage."

Sirius was the first to speak up, his tone urgent and demanding. "Tell me the truth, Albus," he pressed. "I feel there is more going on here than you are telling us, and something tells me you know what it is."

Dumbledore let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "The scar...I am worried about it," he admitted, his eyes betraying his deepest fears. "Did Harry ever tell you about his dreams of Voldemort?"

Sirius hesitated for a moment before nodding slowly. "I remember his letters from last year. Something about Voldemort, Wormtail, Crouch, and an old mansion," he said quietly, his voice laced with sadness.

Dumbledore turned to Snape, a flicker of hope igniting in his eyes. Snape met his gaze with a cold, steely resolve - the two men communicating silently without the need for words. It was time to act, to take the fight to Voldemort and protect Harry at all costs.

"Absolutely not, Albus! I refuse to teach a spoiled brat like him!" Snape hissed, his voice dripping with venomous disdain.

"Watch your tongue, Snape!" Sirius bellowed, his anger seeping through his skin like hot tar. His fists clenched tightly, as if he were holding back a force of nature that threatened to break free. If it weren't for Remus holding him back, Sirius might have cursed Snape on the spot. He glared back at Snape with equal spite, his eyes burning with a fury that could have set the whole castle on fire.

But Albus stepped in, his voice measured and cryptic, like a wise old sage dispensing wisdom to the ignorant. "Please, Severus," he said, his eyes piercing into Snape's dark soul. "It's the only way to sever their connection. We can't risk another incident until the time comes." Sirius started to grasp what Albus was suggesting, and begrudgingly he agreed with the sentiment. He had wanted nothing more than to teach Harry himself, to be the father figure that he never had. But his traumatic experiences with the Dementors and his time on the run had taken a toll on his mental and emotional fortitude. He simply wasn't as strong as he used to be, and would be incapable of teaching occlumency. Perhaps he could still impart basic knowledge, but he couldn't handle the practical application. He had no choice but to relent and let Snape take over, the thought of which made his skin crawl. He glanced at Remus, who seemed vacant, lost in his own thoughts. He let out a deep sigh, frustration boiling within him like a simmering cauldron of emotions.

"Damn it all," he muttered under his breath, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "This is not how I wanted it to be."

Snape smirked, a look of self-satisfaction plastered on his greasy face.

Sirius felt his blood boil at the insult, but he held his tongue, knowing that any further provocation would only make things worse. Instead, he turned his gaze to Dumbledore, who had a glint of sadness in his eyes. It was as if he knew that this decision would tear Sirius apart, leaving him with nothing but the bitter taste of regret.


Albus, Poppy, and Snape had slunk away from Harry's chamber, escorted out by Remus. Sirius had chosen to remain, keeping vigil at his godson's bedside, and shortly after his friend had returned. He let out a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of frustration settle on his shoulders like a cloak of lead. Albus had been about as helpful as a screen door on a submarine, obsessing over Harry's visions and dreams instead of addressing the root of the problem. And as for Snape, Sirius couldn't fathom why the old man had entrusted that slimy snake with teaching Harry instead of someone more trustworthy.

Poppy had assured him that Harry's fever would break and he'd recover fully once he came to. But until then, Sirius was stuck in this stuffy, suffocating room, feeling useless and angry. He rose from his chair, contemplating a trip to the library to pass the time, when the door creaked open.

Two familiar faces appeared, looking at him with concern etched into their features like a carving on a gravestone. He instantly recognized them as his godson's best friends. The girl with the wavy hair spoke up, her voice soft and anxious. "How is Harry?"

Sirius snarled, his frustration boiling over like a pot left too long on the stove. "Why are you still lurking about?" he snapped, his words dripping with sarcasm.

"We just want to know how he's doing," the red-haired boy said, his eyes wide and pleading.

Sirius felt his temper rise, like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon. "Leave him be," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "He needs to rest."

Remus stepped forward, trying to calm the situation. He placed a hand on Sirius's shoulder, but Sirius brushed it off with a scowl. "You two stay away from him," he warned. "Or else."

And with that, he stormed out of the room, leaving a tired-looking Remus and two sheepish teenagers behind. Remus gave them a small smile, trying to reassure them. "Sirius will come around," he said. "He just needs some time to cool off. Snape has a way of getting under his skin, especially when it comes to Harry."

Remus leaned against the wall, his eyes flickering from Ron to Hermione, scanning their worried expressions. He cleared his throat and spoke in a low, soothing tone. "Seems to me, you two can't lay eyes on Harry right now. He's been through a rough patch, needs to rest." He paused and looked down at Harry, his heart heavy with concern. "But no need to sweat it. He's strong, he'll bounce back, you'll see."

Ron and Hermione exchanged a worried glance, their eyes darting back to Harry's still form. Remus could see the fear and uncertainty etched on their faces. He recognized that look all too well, had seen it on his comrades' faces during those long nights when James, Sirius, and even Peter had tried to storm into the infirmary to see their wounded mate. Madam Pomfrey had always chased them away, insisting on his recovery.

Clearing his throat, Remus tried to reassure them. "Soon as Harry opens his eyes, you'll be the first to know," he promised, his voice thick with emotion. "But for now, you both need to rest. Worrying isn't good for the soul." He waved a hand tiredly, urging them to leave.

As they backed away from the bed, Ron and Hermione looked back at Harry, their eyes filled with concern. Remus watched them go, his heart heavy with worry. He knew the toll anxiety could take on a person, had felt it himself during those long years of war. He hoped they'd take his advice and catch some much-needed sleep.

t.b.c

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