The world had grown cold and grey for Charlie Weasley. He had always been able to take solace in the warmth of the dragon fire, in the sunburnt rocks and endless sky of Romania, where freedom and danger intermingled. But when the news reached him—horrifying and heart-shattering—about what had happened at Malfoy Manor, the world he had known collapsed in on itself.

Hermione. Tortured.

Charlie had known darkness. He had seen men die, had heard the raw screams of creatures in agony, had felt the weight of life and death pressing on his chest. But nothing had ever prepared him for this. Not for the pain, not for the fear coursing through his veins as he Apparated to St Mungo's, his heart hammering in his chest as if trying to break free.

The hospital was a blur of sterile white and clinical efficiency. He shoved past Healers and patients alike, eyes scanning every corridor, every passing face. He needed to find her. He *had* to see her. His little brother's voice had been broken on the other end of the mirror when he explained what Bellatrix Lestrange had done. Ron had tried to be strong, but Charlie knew the tremor in his voice. He knew it because he felt it too. A storm of helplessness and rage that threatened to consume him.

Turning a corner, he skidded to a halt in front of a door, panting heavily. Behind it, he could hear the muffled sound of someone weeping softly. His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach.

He pushed open the door gently, almost afraid to enter.

Inside, the small, dimly lit room was suffused with an unbearable stillness. His mother sat at Hermione's bedside, one hand gripping hers as she cried silently, her other hand pressing a crumpled handkerchief to her mouth.

And there, lying motionless in the hospital bed, was Hermione Granger.

Charlie's legs nearly buckled beneath him. She looked so fragile, so *broken*. Her face was pale, drained of all the life and fire he had come to admire so much. Her skin was marred with faint lines of fresh scars—evidence of the curse that had been carved into her flesh. The word *Mudblood* was barely visible beneath the Healer's spellwork, but its presence haunted the room like a ghost, a cruel reminder of her suffering.

"She... she's been sedated," Molly whispered through her tears, noticing Charlie's presence but not lifting her eyes from Hermione's face. "She hasn't woken properly since they brought her here."

Charlie's chest heaved as he took another step forward. His mother's words washed over him like a wave, but he felt numb, lost in the horror of seeing Hermione like this—silent and small, so unlike the brilliant young witch who had once stood so tall. His hands trembled as he reached out to touch her, but he hesitated just inches away. He was afraid. Afraid that if he touched her, she might break. Afraid that he would never be able to put her back together.

"She screamed for hours," Molly continued, her voice hoarse with sorrow. "They said... they said she was so brave, Charlie, but I don't know how anyone could bear what she went through."

His breath caught in his throat, and his eyes burned with tears he had been holding back. He didn't want to cry, didn't want to show that weakness in front of his mother or Hermione. But the sight of her, so battered, so vulnerable—it shattered him. He crumbled.

Charlie sank to his knees beside the bed, his forehead resting against the cold metal rail. He pressed his eyes shut as the tears spilled over, unbidden and unstoppable.

"I... I should've been here," he whispered, voice choked. "I should've been here to protect her... to protect all of you."

"Charlie, no—" Molly's hand found his shoulder, squeezing gently, but Charlie shook his head violently.

"I should have done *something," he muttered, clenching his fists. "Anything. I wasn't here... I wasn't—"

"You couldn't have known," Molly whispered, though her voice wavered, and she sounded as if she were trying to convince herself as much as him. "None of us knew."

"But I *should* have." His voice was barely more than a strangled breath. His tears stained the bedspread as his hand reached out, fingers trembling as they brushed against Hermione's cold skin. "I... I could've saved her from this..."

The room fell into a deafening silence, broken only by the quiet sobs escaping his lips. He felt an ache in his chest so deep, so profound, that it felt like it would never leave him. His mind flashed with images—Hermione's laughter, her defiance, the way her eyes had always lit up when she talked about learning new things, about making the world better. And now... now she lay there, still and silent, as if that fire had been snuffed out.

His chest heaved with sobs that came like a torrent, and for the first time in years, Charlie Weasley—so strong, so stoic—allowed himself to be vulnerable. Allowed himself to break.

Molly watched her son fall apart, her own heart aching for him, for Hermione, for all of them. Her tears had slowed, but the pain remained, lingering in the air like a thick fog. She knew there was nothing she could say to take away this anguish—there were no words, no reassurances that could make any of this better.

But as Charlie sobbed beside Hermione's bed, Molly reached over and gently pulled her son into her arms. He resisted for only a moment before he buried his face against her shoulder, the weight of the world crushing him from the inside.

"You can't fix this, Charlie," Molly whispered softly, her voice trembling. "None of us can... but you're here now. That's all that matters. You're here."

The silence fell again, and for a long time, neither of them spoke. They sat together, holding onto one another, and onto Hermione. The room was filled with the quiet hum of the hospital, the distant clatter of footsteps and voices muffled beyond the door.

Charlie's tears had finally slowed, but the pain lingered—sharp and relentless. He raised his head and looked at Hermione again, his hand never leaving hers. His thumb brushed gently against her skin, willing her to feel his presence. To know that she wasn't alone, even if she was trapped in the dark place where the memories haunted her.

He leaned down, pressing his lips gently to her forehead, lingering there for a moment.

"I'm here," he whispered against her skin, voice thick with emotion. "And I'm not going anywhere."

As he straightened, he caught sight of the faint flicker of movement beneath Hermione's eyelids. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw her stir, thought he saw her brow furrow in response to his touch. But then it was gone, and she was still once more.

But that moment... that tiny, fragile moment... it was enough for Charlie to cling to.

He wiped his face with the back of his hand, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. His voice came out stronger now, filled with a quiet determination. "We'll get her back, Mum," he said softly. "No matter how long it takes... no matter what we have to do. We'll fix this."

Molly squeezed his hand, nodding through her tears. "Yes, Charlie," she whispered. "We'll fix her. Together."

And as the night crept on, Charlie stayed by Hermione's side, his hand firmly holding hers, refusing to let go. The road ahead was long, and it was uncertain. But he would be there, every step of the way, to help her find her light again.

Because when you love someone, truly love them, you do everything in your power to fix them—even if it takes all that you have.

"Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you."