House of Slayer 3: The Slayer, The Witch & The Key

by Brenna's Urbangirl Projects

After learning that Hermione Granger is their long-lost sister. Dawn and Buffy, after accepting Dumbledore's offer to help protect Dawn, head to Hogwarts.

37. Chapter 37: Christmas

Chapter 37: Christmas

December 19, 2002 – Thursday

#12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London

Buffy had been watching Harry with a careful, almost maternal intensity ever since they had returned from St. Mungo's. It was as if she could see the storm of emotions churning just beneath the surface of his calm facade, like dark clouds threatening to burst with the weight of a brewing tempest. The haunted look in his eyes had become a permanent fixture, a shadow that refused to lift, and the way his shoulders slumped as though carrying an unbearable burden made it clear that something was gnawing at him from the inside.

The room felt charged with unspoken tension as Buffy's gaze remained fixed on him, her heart heavy with concern. She could almost feel the invisible weight pressing down on him, a force that seemed to draw him deeper into himself. "Dawn," she called softly, her voice imbued with a note of urgency that cut through the thick silence like a knife.

Dawn turned to her older sister, immediately attuned to the gravity of the situation. The unspoken worry in Buffy's eyes was unmistakable, and as she followed her sister's gaze to Harry, she could feel the seriousness of the matter settle in her own chest. Nodding, she asked quietly, "You want me to talk to him?"

Buffy nodded in response, her eyes lingering on Harry with a mixture of worry and determination, the kind that spoke of a fierce protective instinct. She knew Dawn had a way of reaching Harry when no one else could, a connection that ran deep between them, forged through shared experiences and mutual understanding.

Dawn rose from her seat, her movements slow and deliberate as if not to startle Harry from whatever inner turmoil he was wrestling with. Her footsteps were gentle, yet purposeful, as she approached him. "Harry, come with me, please," she requested, her voice tender but carrying an insistence that was hard to ignore.

Harry sighed deeply, the sound laden with exhaustion, the kind that came from a place far beyond physical tiredness. He nodded, more out of resignation than agreement, and followed Dawn as she led him upstairs. Each creak of the floorboards underfoot seemed to echo the heaviness in his heart, marking their path to the room Dawn shared with Hermione and Buffy—a place that had become a sanctuary of sorts, away from prying eyes and the overwhelming world outside.

Once inside, Dawn closed the door softly, the click of the latch signaling a moment of privacy. She turned to face Harry, her eyes wide and searching, probing his expression for any clue that might reveal the source of his distress. The air in the room felt thick with unspoken words, and the small space seemed to amplify the intensity of the moment. "What's wrong? And don't say nothing. I know you too well, Harry Potter," she said, her tone firm yet infused with a gentle compassion that only someone who truly cared could muster.

"Dawn…" Harry began, but his voice trailed off, the words caught in his throat as he struggled to articulate the turmoil that was swirling within him. His eyes flickered with uncertainty, as if unsure whether he could bear to put his fears into words.

Dawn shook her head slightly, stepping closer to him, bridging the gap between them. "Look, Harry. Everyone can see it. Something is eating you. Remember that talk you and I had last year?" she prompted, and Harry nodded, the memory surfacing like a ghost from the past, bringing with it a sense of familiarity and comfort. "You know I'm the one out of all our friends who understands what you're going through."

Harry let out a deep, shuddering sigh, the kind that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, as if the weight he was carrying had become too much to bear alone. "It has to do with the dream, Dawn. And what we heard over Fred and George's Extendable Ears," he confessed, his voice laced with a vulnerability that he rarely allowed himself to show.

Dawn nodded, her expression softening with understanding as she sat down on her bed. The room, with its familiar scents and the comforting clutter of shared belongings, felt like a protective cocoon—a place where the outside world couldn't reach them, where they could speak freely without fear of judgment. "You can tell me, Harry. You know I won't judge you," she assured him, her voice a soothing balm to the raw edges of his anxiety.

Harry hesitated, the silence stretching between them like a taut string, ready to snap at the slightest touch. The words were there, lodged in his throat, but saying them aloud felt like opening a door he wasn't sure he could close again. But as he met Dawn's unwavering gaze, filled with nothing but warmth and reassurance, he found the courage he needed to speak. "In Dumbledore's office, just as we were getting ready to leave, I felt like I was the snake. I wanted to sink my fangs into Dumbledore," he admitted, his voice trembling as he finally gave voice to the fear that had been gnawing at him from the inside out.

Dawn nodded as she listened intently, her eyes locked onto his, unwavering in their focus. She could see the turmoil swirling in the depths of Harry's gaze, the raw edge of fear that clung to his words. "Go on," she urged gently, her voice a steady anchor in the storm of his emotions.

Harry drew in a shaky breath, his voice trembling slightly as he continued, "Then there was what was said at St. Mungo's. About me seeing things through Voldemort's snake and him possessing me." His voice quivered with the weight of the admission, as if each word carried the burden of his darkest fears. "And it got me to thinking I'm the weapon. I'm the one Voldemort's trying to use, that's why they've got guards around me everywhere I go. It's not for my protection, it's for other people's. Only it's not working, they can't have someone on me all the time at Hogwarts... I did attack Mr. Weasley that night. It was me. Voldemort made me do it, and he could be inside me, listening to my thoughts right now—"

As the words tumbled out, Harry's voice grew more frantic, the sheer terror of the possibility taking hold of him. The idea that he could be a puppet in Voldemort's hands, a weapon against those he cared about, gnawed at him with relentless ferocity.

Dawn sighed softly, her heart aching for her brother as she saw the fear etched across his features. Her expression softened with empathy, her eyes filled with a deep, understanding sadness. "Harry, that's not true," she said, her voice a gentle but firm counterpoint to his spiraling fear. "He can't make you do anything you don't want to do. Did you want to hurt Mr. Weasley?"

Harry shook his head vehemently, his eyes wide with desperation as he clung to the hope her words offered. "No," he responded, his voice barely more than a whisper, as if admitting it would somehow dispel the nightmare that haunted him.

Dawn's smile was gentle, but it held a strength that radiated warmth and reassurance, like a soft glow in the dark corners of his mind. Her words were a balm, soothing the raw nerves that had been stretched to their limits. "Then he couldn't force you to do it short of putting you under the Imperius curse anyway. And since he wasn't in the room with you, there was no way to put you under the Imperius."

Harry's eyes flickered with uncertainty, the fear still lingering despite her comforting logic. "But…" he began, the dread still clinging to him like a shadow.

"But nothing," Dawn interrupted, her voice firm yet kind, cutting through his doubt with the clarity of truth. "Sure, he may be able to see in your thoughts, and you in his. That's all there is to it. He can't control you. And once you learn how, you can even shield your mind so that he can't get in."

Harry sighed deeply, the weight of his fears lifting slightly, like a heavy fog beginning to clear. Her words planted a seed of hope, a small but significant flicker in the darkness. He nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing as he allowed himself to believe, if only a little. "Thanks, Dawn," he said, his voice tinged with a fragile hope.

Dawn's smile widened into a warm and confident grin, one that radiated reassurance and unwavering loyalty. "Who else has your back?" she replied, her tone filled with a certainty that left no room for doubt.

A rare, genuine laugh escaped Harry's lips, the sound a welcome release from the tension that had gripped him for days. The lightness in that moment felt like a breath of fresh air, a break in the relentless storm.

"Well…" Harry began, but before he could finish, Dawn seized the moment. With a mischievous glint in her eye, she reached for the pillow on her bed and, with playful force, hurled it at Harry. The pillow hit him squarely in the chest, bursting with a flurry of feathers that danced in the air, filling the room with laughter and a sense of normalcy that had been sorely missed.

And that's how Ron found Dawn and Harry an hour later, immersed in a fierce pillow fight that had transformed the room into a chaotic wonderland of swirling feathers and infectious laughter. The heavy atmosphere from earlier had been replaced by a lightheartedness that seemed to echo in every corner of the room. Feathers floated through the air like snowflakes caught in a gentle breeze, settling on the beds, the floor, and even in their hair, while their laughter rang out, bright and unrestrained, a testament to the bond that had always drawn them together.

Harry was mid-swing, a broad grin stretched across his face, his eyes alight with a joy that had been missing for far too long, when Ron's voice suddenly cut through the playful chaos. "Harry, Dawn, Mum said dinner's ready," Ron announced from the doorway, his tone a blend of exasperation and amusement as he took in the scene before him. The room, once tidy, now looked as if a miniature snowstorm had taken place, with pillows discarded haphazardly and feathers still floating down like the last remnants of a blizzard.

Harry paused, the pillow in his hand momentarily forgotten as he caught his breath, his chest rising and falling heavily from the exertion. He looked at Dawn, his grin softening into something more thoughtful. "I'll grab something later to eat. I need to think anyway. Ron, tell your mum I'm taking a nap," Harry said, his voice steady but tinged with a quiet resolve, as if the whirlwind of fun had given him the clarity he needed to face his thoughts.

Ron nodded, though his expression was a mixture of confusion and amusement, clearly not fully understanding Harry's sudden shift in mood. He shrugged slightly, accustomed to the odd turns their lives often took, and headed back downstairs, the sound of his footsteps fading as he left Harry and Dawn alone once more.

As the door clicked shut behind Ron, the room fell into a calm silence, the remnants of their playful battle still drifting slowly to the ground. Dawn walked over to the door, her movements unhurried, as if savoring the brief peace that had settled between them. She paused at the threshold, turning to face Harry one last time before she left. Her expression, once filled with the exuberance of their pillow fight, had softened into something more gentle and earnest.

"Harry, everything will be alright, I promise," she said, her voice infused with a quiet sincerity and hope. The words, though simple, carried the weight of her unwavering belief in him, a beacon of light amidst the shadows of his worries. Dawn's eyes, warm and steady, held his for a moment longer, offering him silent support before she stepped out into the hallway, leaving Harry with the comforting echo of her promise lingering in the air.

December 20, 2002 – Friday

Granger Home

The next day dawned clear and crisp, the winter sunlight casting a pale, almost ethereal glow over the landscape. The world outside seemed to sparkle with a crystalline freshness, but within the walls of their home, the atmosphere was heavy with a subdued sadness. Dawn, Hermione, and Buffy were preparing to leave for the Grangers', their movements deliberate and marked by a somber undertone despite the bright morning that greeted them.

As they gathered their belongings, the air was filled with the muted sounds of soft murmurs and the rustling of coats and scarves being readied for the day. Dawn, ever perceptive to the emotional currents around her, noticed the tightness in Hermione's expression. The way her fingers fidgeted with the fringes of her scarf, twisting and untwisting it, spoke volumes about her internal struggle. Buffy, always in tune with her sister's needs, placed a reassuring hand on Hermione's shoulder, her comforting smile a silent promise of support and solidarity.

The journey to the Grangers' home was marked by a heavy silence, each of them absorbed in their own thoughts. The landscape outside the car window passed by in a blur of winter white, but it did little to lift the weight of their concern. Dawn occasionally glanced at Buffy, drawing strength from her calm and steady presence, finding solace in her sister's unspoken reassurance. Hermione, meanwhile, kept her gaze fixed on the passing scenery, her mind racing as she rehearsed how best to approach the difficult conversation with her parents.

Upon arriving at the Grangers' doorstep, they were met with the warmth of welcoming smiles and the embrace of familiar hugs. The cozy, inviting home, with its faint scent of fresh coffee mingling with the aroma of baked goods, offered a momentary reprieve from the tension that had been building. The comfort of the Grangers' home, filled with its soft colors and the gentle hum of everyday life, provided a brief escape from their worries.

After settling into the living room, surrounded by the comforting familiarity of family photos that lined the walls and the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, Hermione took a deep breath. She steeled herself, trying to channel the strength she had drawn from her friends and family. "Mum, Dad," she began, her voice steady but betraying the knot of apprehension in her stomach, "we need to talk. We won't be able to go on the ski trip."

The Grangers exchanged concerned glances, their faces reflecting a mix of curiosity and unease as they focused their full attention on Hermione. Dawn and Buffy flanked Hermione, their presence a silent pillar of support as she navigated through the difficult explanation. Hermione's words were carefully chosen, each one measured to convey the seriousness of the situation without causing undue alarm.

Mrs. Granger's sigh was a soft exhale of resignation and understanding, her eyes filled with a deep concern that spoke to her love and worry for Hermione. "We'll miss having you with us, but we understand. Your safety comes first," she said, her voice gentle but firm, offering a measure of comfort in the face of disappointment.

Mr. Granger nodded in agreement, his expression one of gentle reassurance, a silent pledge of his steadfast support. "We'll have other trips. Just promise us you'll be careful," he added, his voice carrying a warmth that was both comforting and encouraging.

In that moment, the weight of their earlier anxiety seemed to ease slightly, replaced by a shared sense of understanding and support. The Grangers' acceptance, though tinged with disappointment, was a reminder of the strength and resilience found in family bonds.

#12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London

At six o'clock that evening, they returned to Grimmauld Place, the sky outside deepening into a rich, velvety black. The encroaching darkness cast long, spindly shadows through the mansion's tall, narrow windows, adding to the already oppressive atmosphere of the old house. The once grand but now decaying mansion seemed to sag under the weight of its own history, the air thick with an almost tangible sense of melancholy.

Hermione and Dawn, resolute in their mission, ventured into the depths of the house in search of Harry. They navigated through the dimly lit corridors, their footsteps echoing softly against the cold, stone floors. Eventually, they arrived at Buckbeak's room. The door, slightly ajar, allowed a sliver of light to escape, accompanied by the faint, earthy scent of the hippogriff mingled with the soothing, rhythmic sound of the creature's breathing.

Hermione approached the door with a sense of urgency, her knuckles rapping against the wood with a firm, rhythmic thud that reverberated through the quiet. "We know you're in there," she called out, her tone a mix of insistence and concern.

Dawn added her voice, softer yet equally determined. "Will you please come out?" she requested, her words imbued with a gentleness that contrasted with the urgency of the situation. "We want to talk to you."

After a brief pause, during which the silence seemed to stretch taut, the door creaked open slowly. Harry's tired and slightly annoyed face emerged from the darkness, his expression a blend of surprise and curiosity. "What are you two doing back?" he asked, his voice holding a note of incredulity. "I thought you were going skiing with your mum and dad?"

Hermione shifted slightly, a small, wistful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Well, to tell the truth, skiing's not really my thing," she admitted, a hint of amusement in her voice. "I only agreed because Dawn and Buffy said they had never been."

Dawn nodded earnestly, her eyes bright with sincerity. "But on the way over to Mom and Dad's house, we came to a conclusion that we just wanted to spend the holidays together. So Mom and Dad left to go skiing on their own."

Hermione nodded in agreement, adding with a soft chuckle, "But don't tell Ron. I told him skiing's really good because he kept laughing so much. Mum and Dad are a bit disappointed, but they understand that the three of us wanted to spend it together, so…"

"Anyway," Dawn said briskly, eager to move past the initial awkwardness of their unexpected reunion. "Let's go to your bedroom. Ron's mum has lit a fire in there and she's sent up sandwiches."

Harry followed them up to the second floor, his curiosity piqued by the unexpected turn of events. The warmth from the fireplace in his room seemed to seep into the hallway, a welcome contrast to the chill that had settled over the rest of the house. As he entered his bedroom, he was greeted by a surprising sight: Ron, Buffy, and Ginny were already there.

Ginny and Ron were seated on Ron's bed, their expressions a mix of anticipation and relief. They looked up as Harry entered, their faces lighting up with a blend of excitement and comfort. Buffy was seated on Harry's bed, her demeanor calm but serious, her presence radiating a quiet authority.

Buffy's smile was gentle but reassuring, her eyes meeting Harry's with an expression of both warmth and resolve. "I talked to Dumbledore this morning just before we left," she began, her tone measured and sincere. "Umbridge is already livid that you guys disappeared right under her nose, even though Dumbledore told her Mr. Weasley was in St. Mungo's and he'd given you all permission to visit. While she still trusts me, she's not too thrilled that I left with Hermione and Dawn either. I expect she will want to talk to me when we get back."

Hermione and Dawn settled beside Buffy, their united presence forming a protective barrier around Harry. The three girls sat close, their faces etched with concern as they, alongside Ron, turned their full attention towards Harry, whose demeanor was distant and closed off.

"How're you feeling?" Hermione asked gently, her voice a mix of tenderness and probing concern. Her eyes sought out his, trying to pierce through the walls he had erected around himself.

"Fine," Harry replied stiffly, his posture rigid and unyielding, as if his body was a shield against their intrusion. The word seemed to hang in the air, a stark contrast to the tension that crackled between them. Dawn, unable to mask her frustration, rolled her eyes, her expression a blend of exasperation and affection.

"Oh, don't lie, Harry," Dawn said impatiently, crossing her arms in a gesture of both defiance and protectiveness. "We all know you've been hiding from everyone since you got back from St. Mungo's. I even talked to you about it yesterday, remember?" Her voice carried an edge of frustration, as if trying to push through the barrier Harry had constructed.

"They do, do they?" Harry's gaze shifted, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and hurt as he looked at Ron and Ginny before turning to the Summers twins and Buffy. The intensity of his stare seemed to accuse them of prying too deeply, his emotions raw and exposed.

"Well, you have!" Hermione's tone rose slightly, frustration evident in her voice as she attempted to break through his defensive shell. "And you won't look at any of us!" Her words were a plea for connection, for him to acknowledge their concern and let them in.

"It's you lot who won't look at me!" Harry retorted angrily, his voice reverberating off the walls with an echo that filled the room with palpable tension. His fists clenched at his sides, the physical manifestation of his internal struggle, and the atmosphere seemed to grow thicker with the weight of his emotions.

Dawn exchanged a look with Buffy, a silent communication passing between them as Dawn let out a heavy sigh. Buffy nodded, her expression one of understanding and sympathy, recognizing the depth of Harry's emotional turmoil. It seemed that Dawn's earlier attempts to coax Harry out of his shell had been in vain, the burden of his feelings still pressing heavily upon him.

"Maybe you're taking it in turns to look, we all just keep missing each other," Hermione suggested, her attempt at humor intended to lighten the mood, though it fell flat in the charged atmosphere. The joke did little to alleviate the tension, instead highlighting the disconnect between their intentions and Harry's emotional state.

"Very funny," Harry snapped, his voice tinged with bitterness as he turned away from them, his back acting as a physical barrier between himself and his friends. His shoulders were hunched, and his head hung low, as if he were trying to shield himself from their concerned gazes.

"Oh, stop feeling all misunderstood," Hermione said sharply, her eyes flashing with impatience. The irritation in her voice cut through the tension, reflecting her frustration with Harry's refusal to open up. "We all know what we overheard at St. Mungo's."

Buffy's brow furrowed in confusion as she looked between her sisters and their friends. "What?" she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity and concern.

Dawn let out a heavy sigh, glancing at her sister before turning back to Buffy. "Fred and George had Extendable Ears. Hermione and Harry heard what Moody said," she explained, her voice carrying a note of weariness. The explanation seemed to bridge the gap in understanding for Buffy, who now grasped the reason behind Harry's brooding demeanor.

"Oh, great," Buffy said, her voice laden with realization as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The weight of the situation settled more heavily upon her as she understood the depth of Harry's distress.

"Yeah?" Harry growled, his frustration bubbling to the surface like a storm threatening to break. The harshness in his voice underscored his struggle to manage his emotions and the pressure of his predicament.

Buffy sighed deeply, taking a step closer to Harry, her expression a mixture of sympathy and resolve. "Harry, think for a moment, will you…" she said, her voice softened by a genuine concern that sought to cut through his self-imposed isolation.

"We wanted to talk to you, Harry," Ginny said, her tone a blend of concern and exasperation. Her words conveyed the collective frustration of those around him. "But you've been hiding ever since we got back. Only Dawn has managed to talk to you. Though I'm not a hundred percent sure why. No offense, Dawn." Her candidness revealed the strained dynamics between them and the difficulty of reaching out to Harry.

Ron, Dawn, Hermione, and Buffy exchanged knowing glances, their silent communication reflecting a shared understanding. The unspoken bond between them acknowledged the unique relationship between Harry and Dawn, both having endured their own harrowing experiences. The understanding in their eyes spoke to the depth of their empathy and the silent acknowledgment of the trials they each faced.

"I didn't want anyone to talk to me, besides Dawn," Harry said, his voice softening slightly, the walls around him seeming to crack just a little. "Dawn understands what I've been going through because she's gone through a similar situation last year." His admission revealed a sliver of vulnerability, a hint of the trust he had in Dawn's ability to relate to his struggles.

"Well, that was a bit stupid of you," Ginny said angrily, her eyes narrowing as she struggled to reconcile her emotions. "Seeing as you don't know anyone but me who's been possessed by You-Know-Who, and I can tell you how it feels." Her frustration was palpable, but curiosity also began to take hold as she paused, the intensity of her anger shifting. "What? What similar situation has Dawn been in?" she asked, her voice now tinged with genuine curiosity, seeking to understand the depth of Dawn's experiences that mirrored Harry's own.

Dawn sighed deeply, the weight of her past pressing heavily on her shoulders, a burden that seemed almost tangible in the dimly lit room. Her gaze flickered between her sisters, seeking their silent approval as if their collective presence could offer her the strength to face the task ahead. "I think we should tell her," she said, her voice steady despite the sadness that tinged it, like a quiet undercurrent beneath calm waters.

Buffy's eyes softened with understanding as she gave a slight nod. "It's your call," she said, her tone encouraging but respectful of Dawn's decision.

"Buffy's right," Hermione agreed, her voice carrying a note of support. Her agreement was both reassuring and affirming, reinforcing the shared sense of responsibility she and Buffy felt towards the situation.

Dawn turned to Ginny, her expression a blend of firmness and gentleness. "I'll tell you later, Ginny," she said, her words carefully chosen to balance honesty with discretion. Her demeanor reflected a resolve to protect Ginny from the weight of the full truth until the moment was right.

Ginny nodded in response, her acceptance of Dawn's decision evident in the way she held her gaze steady. She understood without protest, recognizing that the immediate priority was addressing Harry's concerns and providing him with the support he so clearly needed.

Harry remained motionless, his mind clearly processing the weight of Ginny's earlier statements. The gravity of her words seemed to settle heavily on his shoulders, pressing down on him with an almost physical force. Then, as if struck by a sudden revelation, he abruptly wheeled around. "I forgot."

"Lucky you," Ginny replied coolly, her voice laced with a hint of sarcasm. The edge in her tone masked her own unease, but the words carried a sharp clarity, underscoring her frustration.

"I'm sorry," Harry said earnestly, his gaze locking with Ginny's. His eyes reflected a depth of regret and sincerity, the gravity of his apology evident in the earnestness of his voice. "I really am. So... do you think I'm being possessed, then?"

Ginny tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful as she considered his question. "Well, can you remember everything you've been doing?" she asked, her tone both serious and kind, offering a lifeline of clarity amidst the turmoil. "Are there big blank periods where you don't know what you've been up to?"

Harry furrowed his brow, his mind sifting through the haze of recent weeks. He seemed to delve into the recesses of his memory, searching for any gaps or anomalies. "No," he said finally, his voice tentative but honest, the admission echoing with a mixture of relief and uncertainty.

Then You-Know-Who hasn't ever possessed you," Ginny said simply, her words acting like a soothing balm to Harry's frayed nerves. The straightforwardness of her statement provided a moment of clarity, cutting through the fog of his fears.

Dawn's eyes softened with understanding as she looked at Harry. "That's exactly what I told you yesterday, Harry," she said, her tone gentle and reassuring. Her empathy was evident in the way she regarded him, a silent support that echoed her earlier words.

"When he did it to me, I couldn't remember what I'd been doing for hours at a time," Ginny continued, her voice tinged with a mix of fear and lingering resentment. "I'd find myself somewhere and not know how I got there." Her confession revealed the deep-seated trauma she carried, the memory of being under Voldemort's control still vivid and unsettling.

Harry's skepticism was palpable, yet despite himself, he felt a glimmer of hope. "That dream I had about your dad and the snake, though—" he began, struggling to reconcile his lingering doubts with the relief Ginny's words offered.

"Harry, you've had these dreams before," Hermione said gently, her voice imbued with a calming authority. "You had flashes of what Voldemort was up to last year. Besides, you weren't the only one that had that particular dream." Her words aimed to anchor Harry, reminding him of past experiences that had similar elements but didn't signify possession.

"This was different," Harry insisted, shaking his head as his expression tightened with tension. "I was inside that snake. It was like I was the snake... what if Voldemort somehow transported me to London—?"

"One day," Hermione replied with a touch of exasperation, "you'll read Hogwarts: A History and perhaps it will remind you that you can't Apparate or Disapparate inside Hogwarts. Even Voldemort couldn't just make you fly out of your dormitory, Harry. Besides, I had the same dream, remember? And to me, it seemed like I was in the snake also." Her explanation was a blend of reassurance and a gentle nudge to remember the limits of magical boundaries.

"You didn't leave your bed, mate," Ron interjected, his tone both practical and soothing. "I saw you thrashing around in your sleep for at least a minute before we could wake you up." His observation added a grounded perspective, reinforcing that Harry's physical actions were confined to the room.

Dawn nodded, her voice calm and reassuring. "Remember, Harry, I said short of the Imperius curse. There was no way you could have been forced to do anything against your will. And there is no way Voldemort could cast the Imperius on you because he was not in Hogwarts." Her steady reassurance was meant to dispel the last of his fears, providing a logical framework to counteract his anxiety.

Harry began pacing up and down the room, his mind racing as he processed the reassurances and tried to come to terms with his fears. His steps were quick and restless, a physical manifestation of his internal conflict. Suddenly, he stopped, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes as he turned to Dawn with a wicked grin. "It's your turn," he said, the playful challenge in his voice signaling a shift in the atmosphere, as if to lighten the mood with a hint of jest amidst the seriousness.

Dawn sighed deeply, her shoulders sagging slightly as she prepared to reveal the truth. The gravity of what she was about to disclose was palpable, hanging in the air like a heavy mist. With a resolute nod, she began to recount the events of the previous year, enlisting the support of Buffy, Hermione, Ron, and Harry. Each of them took their turn, adding their pieces to the story, weaving together the tapestry of Dawn's harrowing experiences.

Ginny listened with rapt attention, her eyes widening progressively with each new detail that emerged. The room seemed to grow quieter, the intensity of her focus sharpening as she absorbed the full weight of Dawn's revelations. "So the thing the Daily Prophet printed about you being the Mystical Key and being hunted by Glorificus was true?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, tinged with disbelief and concern.

Dawn nodded solemnly, her expression serious and her eyes reflecting the depth of the situation. "All true," she confirmed, her tone heavy with the burden of her past. "And during the Third Task last year, she got me too, thanks to Voldemort. It's why Dumbledore, Hermione, Buffy, and Professor McGonagall left school shortly after Harry returned with Cedric's body. They were going to rescue me." Her voice carried the weight of lost time and the pain of a near-unimaginable ordeal.

Ginny's eyes filled with empathy, a sheen of unshed tears shimmering in her gaze. She stepped forward, her movements filled with gentle resolve, and wrapped Dawn in a warm, comforting hug. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that, Dawn. I had no idea," she said softly, her voice a soothing balm of sincere compassion and solidarity.

Harry, observing the moment of genuine understanding and support unfolding between his friends, felt a warmth spread through him. The sight of Ginny's embrace, the connection it represented, filled him with a sense of comfort. "It looks like someone else has got your back now, Dawn," he said with a smile, his voice imbued with gratitude and admiration for the solidarity among his friends.

Dawn laughed softly, a light, relieved sound that seemed to lift some of the lingering tension in the room. Her laughter, though tinged with the residual weight of her experiences, was a sign of the trust and camaraderie that had solidified among them. "I guess so," she said, her eyes meeting Ginny's with a newfound warmth and appreciation.

December 25, 2002 – Wednesday

#12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London

Hermione awoke on Christmas morning to a room aglow with the gentle, golden light of dawn, which filtered through the curtains, casting a serene and festive ambiance over the space. At the foot of her bed lay a stack of presents, wrapped in colorful paper that crinkled softly as Dawn eagerly tore through her own, considerably larger, pile. The room was alive with the rustling of wrapping paper, creating a soothing, holiday soundtrack.

Dawn, her face illuminated with sheer delight, paused momentarily to admire a particularly special gift. Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she held up the sleek, gleaming Firebolt broomstick. The craftsmanship was evident even at a glance, its polished surface catching the morning light. "How did you afford a Firebolt, Hermione?" she asked, her voice tinged with awe and admiration.

Hermione looked up from her own pile of gifts, her expression a blend of pride and affection. She met Dawn's gaze with a knowing smile, her eyes reflecting a depth of love and camaraderie. "A little loan from Harry," she admitted, her tone light yet sincere. "And a promise to make sure you try out for the team again next year, if his ban is ever lifted."

Dawn's heart swelled with gratitude, her emotions overwhelming her as she stood up and enveloped Hermione in a tight, heartfelt hug. "You're okay with me being on the Quidditch team?" she asked, her voice muffled slightly by the embrace, her gratitude palpable.

Hermione sighed, the weight of her concern apparent in the gentle crease of her brow, but she nodded resolutely. "As long as you're okay, yes, I am. You should see what I got the boys. They're probably cursing me right now." Her words, though spoken lightly, hinted at the thoughtful but perhaps frustrating gifts she had chosen for the boys.

Dawn's laughter, light and joyful, filled the room, dispelling any lingering tension and adding to the festive atmosphere. "Day planners?" she guessed with a knowing smile, recognizing her sister's penchant for meticulous organization and practicality.

Hermione's smile widened into a mischievous grin. "Yeah," she confirmed, her tone playful and teasing.

Dawn, now clutching her new broom with a sense of awe, traced her fingers along its sleek design, marveling at its fine craftsmanship. Her excitement bubbled over as she decided to express her thanks in person. "I think I will go thank Harry." With a determined yet light-hearted stride, she walked across the hall to the boys' room, her heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and gratitude.

As she entered the room, Ron's eyes went wide with surprise when he saw the Firebolt in her hands. "Who got you a Firebolt, Dawn?" he asked, his voice filled with amazement and curiosity.

Dawn's face beamed with genuine warmth as she turned to look at Harry, her eyes filled with appreciation. "Hermione," she said, her voice resonating with heartfelt gratitude.

Ron blinked, his face a mixture of surprise and disbelief. His eyebrows arched in astonishment as he processed the revelation. "Hermione? You're kidding, right?"

Dawn shook her head, her grin widening with unrestrained excitement. "Nope. But she did have help." Her voice carried a note of triumph, a sparkle of delight dancing in her eyes.

"Who?" Ron asked, leaning forward with a growing curiosity, his confusion evident.

Dawn's grin took on a mischievous edge as she glanced sideways at Harry. Her eyes sparkled with playful secrecy. "Why, the person who helped is sitting right next to you." Her tone was lighthearted, the anticipation palpable.

Ron turned to look at Harry, his confusion slowly melting into astonishment as he noticed Harry's nod. "If Dawn's going to be Seeker, she has to have the best broom," Harry said with a casual shrug, his modest smile betraying a sense of pride. "Besides, I made Hermione promise that if I ever get unbanned, she'd poke and prod Dawn into trying out for the team again." His voice carried the undertone of a supportive friend, revealing the depth of his commitment to Dawn's Quidditch aspirations.

Ron laughed, shaking his head in disbelief, the sound rich with amusement and incredulity. "I can't believe you did that, Harry. Whose idea was it to get the broom, though? Yours or Hermione's?"

"More or less mutual," Harry said, his smile growing a shade more self-satisfied. The modesty in his expression belied the effort he and Hermione had put into the surprise.

Dawn, overwhelmed with gratitude, walked over and enveloped Harry in a tight hug, her arms wrapping around him with sincere appreciation. The gesture was heartfelt, her emotions spilling over in a warm embrace. At that moment, Fred and George Apparated into the room with a loud, abrupt crack, causing everyone to jump in surprise.

"Merry Christmas," said George, his eyes twinkling with his signature mischief. "Wow, Harry, nice Christmas gift you got there—a hug from a beautiful girl," he added with a teasing wink, causing Dawn to blush furiously, her cheeks turning a deep shade of crimson. "Don't go downstairs for a bit."

"Why not?" asked Ron, his curiosity now fully piqued.

"Mum's crying again," said Fred heavily, his usual cheer dampened by the news. "Percy sent back his Christmas jumper."

"Without a note," added George, his voice laced with frustration. The words hung in the air, their weight pulling the room into a contemplative silence. The festive cheer that had filled the room moments earlier seemed to wane, overshadowed by the reminder of family discord.

Harry, sensing the shift in mood, reached out and gave Dawn a reassuring squeeze. The gesture was small but filled with the unspoken promise of support. Dawn pulled away, her heart heavy with empathy as she looked at the Weasley twins.

Dawn sighed, the lightness of her earlier joy now dimmed by the gravity of the situation. "Poor Mrs. Weasley," she said softly, her voice imbued with genuine sorrow. "She doesn't deserve that." Her words were a tender acknowledgment of Mrs. Weasley's plight, reflecting her deep compassion.

"Percy hasn't asked how Dad is or visited him or anything," George said, his voice carrying a rare trace of bitterness. The words were laced with a mixture of hurt and disillusionment, reflecting the strain of unresolved family tensions.

"We tried to comfort her," Fred added, his usual buoyancy subdued. "Told her Percy's nothing more than a humongous pile of rat droppings." The attempt at humor, though meant to lighten the mood, was tinged with a sharp edge of frustration and disappointment.

"Didn't work," George continued, taking a Chocolate Frog from the pile with a resigned air. "So Lupin and Buffy took over. Best let them cheer her up before we go down for breakfast, I reckon." His tone was practical yet weary, acknowledging the efforts of others to mend the rift.

Dawn nodded, her expression reflecting the understanding of the delicate emotional landscape. "That explains why Buffy wasn't in her bed when I woke up." Her observation was a quiet reminder of the complex web of relationships and responsibilities that bound them all together.

Fred's gaze then fell upon the sleek Firebolt in Dawn's hands, his eyes widening with astonished interest. "A Firebolt? Where did you get a Firebolt?" The question was a mixture of surprise and genuine curiosity, his usual levity momentarily displaced by his intrigue.

Dawn's smile, tinged with a hint of pride and gratitude, illuminated her face. "Hermione," she answered, her voice carrying a warmth of appreciation.

George shook his head in disbelief, his expression a mix of incredulity and admiration. "You're kidding, right?" His tone was incredulous, unable to fully grasp the extent of Hermione's generosity.

"No," Dawn said, her smile widening with unrestrained joy. "But she did have help." The revelation added a layer of intrigue and gratitude to the gift.

Fred and George turned their curious gazes toward Harry, their expressions shifting as realization dawned upon them. "You," they said together, their voices converging in a moment of shared understanding.

Harry nodded, his attempt to downplay his involvement evident in his modest shrug. "If Dawn's going to be Seeker, she needs the best broom. And besides, I made Hermione promise to encourage Dawn to try out for the team again if my ban ever gets lifted." His words were measured, but the sincerity behind them was unmistakable, reflecting his genuine care for his friend's aspirations.

Fred and George exchanged impressed glances, their usual mischievous grins reappearing as they processed Harry's gesture. Fred, unable to contain his admiration, clapped Harry on the back with a hearty thump. "Nice one, Harry," he said, his voice full of approval and camaraderie.

George nodded in agreement, his grin widening. "Top marks for teamwork. Well done." His words carried a tone of respect, acknowledging Harry's thoughtfulness and the spirit of cooperation that defined their group.

Dawn then left the boys' room and returned to her own, where she found Hermione just finishing getting dressed. The room, bathed in the soft morning light, seemed to glow with the promise of a new day. Dawn carefully placed the Firebolt next to her trunk, handling it with a reverence that spoke volumes of her gratitude. After quickly changing into her own clothes, the two girls set off downstairs together, their footsteps echoing with lightness and an infectious sense of optimism that contrasted sharply with the earlier tension.

As they reached the landing, they encountered Harry and Ron emerging from their rooms. The casual encounter was a refreshing interlude in the morning's proceedings.

"Thanks for the book, Harry," Hermione said with genuine enthusiasm, her eyes sparkling with appreciation. "I've wanted that New Theory of Numerology for ages! And that perfume's really unusual, Ron." Her gratitude was evident, a warm acknowledgment of their thoughtful gifts.

"No problem," said Ron, smiling in response. His gaze fell on the neatly wrapped present Hermione was holding. "Who's that for, anyway?" he inquired, curiosity piqued as he nodded towards the parcel.

"Kreacher," said Hermione brightly, her tone filled with a determined kindness that underscored her intent.

Dawn rolled her eyes, her skepticism barely masked. She had always struggled to understand Hermione's soft spot for the house-elf, especially one as cantankerous and unpleasant as Kreacher. Since their arrival, Kreacher had done little more than mutter darkly and hurl insults, even at Sirius, his rightful owner.

"It had better not be clothes!" Ron warned, his expression turning serious. "You know what Sirius said: Kreacher knows too much, we can't set him free!" His concern was palpable, reflecting the ongoing unease about Kreacher's role and potential threat.

"It isn't clothes," Hermione assured him, her voice resolute. "Although if I had my way, I'd certainly give him something to wear other than that filthy old rag. No, it's a patchwork quilt. I thought it would brighten up his bedroom."

"What bedroom?" asked Harry, his brow furrowed in confusion. The notion of Kreacher having a personal space seemed almost absurd given the house-elf's generally grim demeanor.

"Well, Sirius said it's not so much a bedroom, more a kind of—den," Hermione explained. "Apparently he sleeps under the boiler in that cupboard off the kitchen." Her voice carried a touch of sadness, reflecting her concern for Kreacher's living conditions, even though his behavior often warranted little sympathy.

Dawn frowned slightly, her thoughts drifting to the bleak and uncomfortable space Kreacher was confined to. Though she didn't share Hermione's sense of compassion for the house-elf, she couldn't ignore the pang of pity she felt at the image of anyone forced to sleep in such squalor.

When they arrived in the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley and Buffy were the only ones present. Mrs. Weasley, standing at the stove, looked weary, her voice thick with congestion as she managed a strained 'Merry Christmas' greeting. The sight of her, clearly unwell and burdened by the holiday's melancholy undertones, made the festive atmosphere feel muted and bittersweet.

Dawn exchanged a sympathetic glance with Buffy, who offered a reassuring nod in response. Buffy approached Mrs. Weasley and gently placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Why don't you sit down? I will finish making breakfast." Her tone was soothing and supportive, aiming to ease Mrs. Weasley's burden and give her a moment of respite.

Mrs. Weasley looked up at Buffy with eyes full of gratitude and nodded, allowing herself to be guided to a chair at the table. She sank into the chair, her exhaustion and discomfort momentarily softened by Buffy's kind gesture.

Meanwhile, Ron, Hermione, and Harry shifted their focus to the dingy door in the corner opposite the pantry. The door, scratched and scuffed from years of use, seemed almost out of place in the otherwise bustling kitchen. "So, is this Kreacher's bedroom?" Ron asked, his voice tinged with curiosity and a subtle hint of distaste.

"Yes," Hermione confirmed. "Er… I think we'd better knock." Her voice carried a note of apprehension as she prepared to address the unpleasant reality of Kreacher's living situation.

Ron stepped forward and rapped on the door with his knuckles. When there was no immediate reply, he muttered, "He must be sneaking around upstairs." Without further hesitation, he grasped the handle and pulled the door open.

The scene that greeted them was decidedly grim. The space within was cramped and unkempt, bearing the telltale signs of Kreacher's reluctance to part with anything. It looked like a chaotic assortment of rags and filthy blankets had been haphazardly arranged to create what could only be described as a nest. The pile of refuse was so densely packed that it was clear Kreacher had curled up in its center each night, leaving a small, deep dent in the middle where he rested. The air was thick with the musty, unpleasant odor of the neglected room, emphasizing the squalor of Kreacher's makeshift quarters.

Hermione wrinkled her nose in mild distaste, the musty odor of Kreacher's den lingering in the air, but her resolve remained unshaken. "I think I'll just leave his present here," she murmured, carefully placing the neatly wrapped package in the center of the ragged depression Kreacher used as a bed. The gesture was small but sincere, a quiet offering of goodwill. With a soft sigh, she gently closed the door, as if not to disturb the house-elf's hidden sanctuary. "He'll find it later, that'll be fine," she added, her voice carrying a note of hope that the gift might bring even a small moment of comfort to Kreacher.

As they turned away from the cupboard, the creak of the pantry door announced Sirius's arrival. He emerged, arms straining under the weight of a large turkey that seemed almost too big for him to handle. Despite the effort, a mischievous grin spread across his face, a spark of his usual humor returning. "Come to think of it," he said, setting the turkey down with a thud on the counter, "has anyone actually seen Kreacher lately?"

"I haven't seen him since the night we came back here," Harry replied, his tone contemplative as Dawn and Hermione nodded in agreement. The memory of that night—Sirius's stern command for Kreacher to leave the kitchen—was still fresh in their minds. "You were ordering him out of the kitchen."

"Yeah..." Sirius's grin faded into a thoughtful frown as he rubbed his chin, clearly puzzled by the house-elf's continued absence. "You know, I think that's the last time I saw him, too... he must be hiding upstairs somewhere."

"He couldn't have left, could he?" Harry asked, his voice tinged with concern. The idea that Kreacher might have taken Sirius's command literally and left the house entirely gnawed at him. "I mean, when you said 'out', maybe he thought you meant get out of the house?"

"No, no, house-elves can't leave unless they're given clothes. They're tied to their family's house," Sirius said with a dismissive wave, though his voice lacked its usual certainty.

"They can leave the house if they really want to," Harry contradicted him, his brow furrowing in thought. "Dobby did. He left the Malfoys' to give me warnings two years ago. He had to punish himself afterwards, but he still managed it."

Sirius's expression shifted, a flicker of unease crossing his features as he considered Harry's words. For a moment, his usual bravado wavered, replaced by a shadow of doubt. "I'll look for him later," he said, trying to brush off his concern with a casual tone. "I expect I'll find him upstairs crying his eyes out over my mother's old bloomers or something. Of course, he might have crawled into the airing cupboard and died... but I mustn't get my hopes up."

Fred, George, and Ron burst into laughter, the absurdity of Sirius's dark humor cutting through the lingering tension. The sound of their laughter echoed in the room, momentarily lifting the somber mood. However, as the laughter subsided, Hermione and Dawn exchanged reproachful looks. They both shared Buffy's compassionate belief that every creature, no matter how small or surly, deserved to be treated with kindness. Kreacher's attitude may have been insufferable, but they understood that he wouldn't harm anyone unless explicitly ordered to. He was a product of his environment, shaped by years of servitude and neglect.

Once they had finished their hearty Christmas lunch, the Weasleys, Harry, Dawn, and Hermione gathered their things, preparing to pay Mr. Weasley another visit. The warmth of the kitchen was replaced by the sharp bite of the winter air as they stepped outside, the cold nipping at their cheeks and turning their breaths into clouds of mist. They bundled up tightly, pulling scarves close and tugging on gloves as they prepared to face the snowy streets of London.

Mad-Eye, Buffy, and Lupin were already deep in discussion near the doorway, their voices low as they mapped out the safest route to St. Mungo's.

St. Mungo's

The journey to St. Mungo's was swift, with the group navigating the snowy streets of London at a brisk pace. Their breath puffed in the frosty air, mingling with the flakes of snow that fell gently from the overcast sky. The city around them was quiet, the usual hustle muted by the holiday, leaving only the crunch of their boots and the occasional rustle of winter coats to break the silence. As they approached the hospital, they noticed a small, discreet stream of witches and wizards slipping furtively up the otherwise deserted street, all sharing the same destination. The sense of urgency and unease that lingered in the air was palpable, contrasting sharply with the festive decorations that adorned the entrance of St. Mungo's.

Inside, the reception area was a surprising blend of warmth and sterility. Garlands of holly intertwined with twinkling lights adorned the walls, casting a soft, cheerful glow that did its best to counteract the usual cold, clinical atmosphere. It was an odd juxtaposition, this attempt to bring holiday cheer to a place so often filled with pain and worry.

"Family argument, eh?" smirked the blonde witch behind the desk, her eyes glinting with a mix of knowing amusement and sympathy. She leaned forward slightly, as if sharing a secret. "You're the third I've seen today... Spell Damage, fourth floor." Her tone suggested that this sort of thing was common during the holidays—a time when families came together, sometimes with more friction than festivity.

The group made their way to the fourth floor, each of them lost in their own thoughts. As they stepped out, the festive atmosphere seemed to dim slightly, the lights less bright, the garlands less vibrant. Here, the weight of illness and injury pressed down, muffling the holiday cheer. They approached the ward with a sense of both anticipation and trepidation.

Mr. Weasley was propped up in bed, looking a bit sheepish as he poked at the remains of his turkey dinner. The tray balanced precariously on his lap, and he offered them a bright, albeit slightly forced, smile when he saw them. His eyes lit up, genuine pleasure replacing the initial discomfort that had been evident when they first entered. Yet, despite his attempt to appear cheerful, there was a subtle tension in the way he held himself, a nervousness that Mrs. Weasley picked up on immediately.

"Everything all right, Arthur?" Mrs. Weasley asked, her voice tinged with concern as they all gathered around Mr. Weasley's bed, greeting him warmly and handing over their carefully chosen presents.

"Fine, fine," Mr. Weasley replied, his tone overly hearty, as though trying too hard to convince them—and perhaps himself. "You — er — haven't seen Healer Smethwyck, have you?"

Mrs. Weasley's eyes narrowed suspiciously, her gaze sharpening. "No," she said slowly, her voice laced with doubt. "Why?"

"Nothing, nothing," Mr. Weasley said with a wave of his hand, his airiness only adding to the suspicion. He began unwrapping his pile of gifts with an exaggerated nonchalance, his fingers fumbling slightly. "Well, everyone had a good day? What did you all get for Christmas? Oh, Harry — this is absolutely wonderful!" He exclaimed, holding up Harry's gift of fuse-wire and screwdrivers with genuine enthusiasm, though the strain of maintaining his cheerful facade was evident.

Mrs. Weasley wasn't so easily placated. Her eyes darted critically to the bandaging peeking out from under Mr. Weasley's nightshirt, and her brows furrowed. Something wasn't adding up.

"Arthur," she snapped, her voice sharp and quick, like a mousetrap snapping shut, "you've had your bandages changed. Why have you had your bandages changed a day early, Arthur? They told me they wouldn't need doing until tomorrow." Her tone left little room for evasion; it was the voice of a woman who knew when something was being kept from her and wasn't going to stand for it.

"What?" Mr. Weasley's voice wavered, a mix of surprise and guilt threading through his words. "No, no — it's nothing — it's — I —" His bravado faltered under Mrs. Weasley's piercing gaze, her eyes boring into him, demanding the truth.

"Well — now don't get upset, Molly, but Augustus Pye had an idea... he's the Trainee Healer, you know, lovely young chap and very interested in... um... complementary medicine... I mean, some of these old Muggle remedies... well, they're called stitches, Molly, and they work very well on — on Muggle wounds —" Mr. Weasley's voice wavered as he spoke, his words tumbling out in a rush as if hoping to lessen the blow of what he was about to confess.

Mrs. Weasley's reaction was swift and fierce. The sound she made was somewhere between a shriek and a snarl, a noise so alarming that it sent shivers down the spines of those present. It was the unmistakable herald of her fury, the kind that could send even the bravest wizard running for cover. Sensing the brewing storm, Lupin wisely began to stroll away from the bed, his steps casual but purposeful, as he made his way over to the werewolf. Bill muttered something under his breath about getting a cup of tea, clearly deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, and Fred and George, ever the opportunists, leapt up to accompany him, their grins wide and mischievous.

"Do you mean to tell me," Mrs. Weasley's voice trembled with barely-contained fury, each word enunciated with deadly precision, "that you have been messing about with Muggle remedies?"

"Not messing about, Molly, dear," Mr. Weasley pleaded, his eyes wide, darting between his wife's furious face and the door, as if gauging the distance to safety. There was a desperate edge to his tone, a man clinging to the hope that his reasoning might somehow placate the storm he had unwittingly unleashed. "It was just — just something Pye and I thought we'd try — only, most unfortunately — well, with these particular kinds of wounds — it doesn't seem to work as well as we'd hoped —"

"Meaning?" Mrs. Weasley's voice dropped to a dangerously low pitch, the kind of tone that sent cold chills down the spines of her children. It was the calm before the inevitable explosion, a storm gathering strength with every passing second.

"Well... well, I don't know whether you know what — what stitches are?" Mr. Weasley ventured hesitantly, his voice faltering as he glanced around the room for support. He was met with blank stares, save for the few who knew all too well what stitches were and were now contemplating the wisdom of staying within the blast radius.

"It sounds as though you've been trying to sew your skin back together," Mrs. Weasley said with a snort of mirthless laughter, her tone dripping with disbelief, "but even you, Arthur, wouldn't be that stupid—"

Harry, Buffy, Hermione, and Dawn, who all knew exactly what stitches were, exchanged uneasy glances. The tension in the room was thick, the air charged with the impending explosion of Mrs. Weasley's wrath. Harry, feeling the pressure mounting, suddenly jumped to his feet. "I fancy a cup of tea, too," he said, his voice tight with urgency as he bolted for the door.

The others didn't need a second invitation. Dawn, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny nearly sprinted after him, their movements quick and decisive as they followed Harry out of the room, desperate to escape the imminent eruption. Buffy, who had lingered a moment longer, finally decided to join them, sensing that whatever was about to happen inside was best experienced from a safe distance. As the door swung closed behind Buffy, a muffled but unmistakable shriek rang out, "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THAT'S THE GENERAL IDEA?"

Ginny shook her head as they hurried down the corridor, the tension slowly beginning to dissipate now that they were safely away from the epicenter. "Typical Dad," she said with a rueful smile, her tone a mix of exasperation and fondness. "Stitches... I ask you..."

"Well, you know, they do work well on non-magical wounds," said Hermione fairly, her tone measured as she nodded in agreement. Buffy and Dawn echoed her sentiments with their own nods, understanding the logic behind the use of stitches even if the situation had spiraled out of control. "I suppose something in that snake's venom dissolves them or something," Hermione added thoughtfully, her mind already whirring with possibilities. Her eyes glanced down the corridor, as if seeking out the answer to the next question. "I wonder where the tearoom is."

"Fifth floor," said Harry, his voice cutting through the momentary silence as he recalled the sign he had seen over the welcomewitch's desk. The group fell into step, walking along the corridor with a collective purpose, the earlier tension slowly ebbing away. They passed through a set of double doors, the wooden frames worn with age, and found themselves facing a rickety staircase. The steps creaked under their weight, each one producing a sharp, echoing groan that reverberated through the otherwise quiet hallway, adding a strange, eerie rhythm to their progress.

Their journey was steady until, for some inexplicable reason, they came to an abrupt halt. Harry, who had been leading the way, suddenly froze. His gaze was locked onto a small, grimy window set into the double doors that marked the beginning of a corridor signposted SPELL DAMAGE. The sight that met his eyes was both unexpected and unsettling. A man was peering out at them, his nose pressed almost flat against the glass, his eyes wide and filled with a strange, unsettling curiosity. His presence was like a ghost from the past, startling in its familiarity.

"Blimey!" Ron breathed out, his voice tinged with a mixture of surprise and disbelief as he followed Harry's gaze. His face mirrored the shock that Harry was feeling, his eyes widening as recognition dawned.

"Oh, my goodness," gasped Hermione, her voice suddenly breathless, her eyes growing wide with a mix of surprise and concern. "Professor Lockhart."

Buffy blinked, her expression one of both curiosity and caution. "One of my predecessors, wasn't he?"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione nodded in unison, the memories of that tumultuous second year flooding back with startling clarity. "He was our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher in our second year," Harry explained, his voice carrying a note of both nostalgia and wariness. "But he was a fraud. He had written a bunch of books claiming he had dealt with all manner of dark creatures. In reality, he had obliviated the real wizards' memories and claimed their deeds as his own." Harry paused, the memory of the chaos Lockhart had caused still vivid in his mind. "Luckily for us, he obliviated his own memory by accident."

Buffy's eyes widened as she listened to Harry's explanation, a mix of curiosity and concern playing across her features. The idea of a man so steeped in deception, now reduced to this fragile state, was both fascinating and unsettling. She couldn't help but wonder how someone so full of bravado could have fallen so far.

"Well, hello there!" Lockhart's voice suddenly rang out, breaking the silence. His face lit up with a wide, almost too-cheerful grin, his eyes sparkling with recognition—or at least the semblance of it. His voice was warm and welcoming, with a hint of the old arrogance that had once defined him. "I expect you'd like my autograph, would you?" He beamed at them, a vestige of his former self shining through despite the empty space where his memories should have been.

"Hasn't changed much, has he?" Harry muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with a mix of amusement and disbelief as he leaned slightly toward Ginny. The corners of her lips tugged upward into a grin, the shared memory of Lockhart's over-the-top arrogance eliciting a knowing look between them.

"Er — how are you, Professor?" Ron's voice was hesitant, carrying a note of awkwardness as he addressed Lockhart. The slight guilt in his tone was palpable, as if he was unsure whether to feel sympathy for the man or to simply remember him as the fraud he once was. Ron's eyes flickered nervously between Lockhart and his friends, trying to gauge the appropriate response to this surreal encounter.

"I'm very well indeed, thank you!" Lockhart responded with the same exuberance that had once characterized his public appearances. His voice rang out with a cheerfulness that seemed almost too bright, too forced, given the circumstances. "Now, how many autographs would you like? I can do joined-up writing now, you know!" He flashed them a wide, eager grin, as if this skill was a grand achievement, something that should impress them all.

Ron shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting toward Harry and Hermione for some sort of cue on how to proceed. "Er — we don't want any at the moment, thanks," he said, his words tumbling out quickly as he tried to politely decline without hurting Lockhart's feelings. Then, in a more concerned tone, he added, "Professor, should you be wandering around the corridors? Shouldn't you be in a ward?"

The question seemed to slowly drain the cheer from Lockhart's face. His once exuberant smile began to waver, and for a few moments, he gazed intently at Harry, his eyes searching, as if trying to piece together a puzzle that remained just out of reach. The intensity of his stare made the silence stretch uncomfortably, until finally, he spoke. "Haven't we met?"

"Er... yeah, we have," Harry said, his voice gentler now, as though he were speaking to someone who might shatter under the weight of too much truth. "You used to teach us at Hogwarts, remember?"

"Teach?" Lockhart repeated the word, his voice tinged with faint confusion. His brow furrowed, and for a brief moment, there was a flicker of doubt, as though the very idea of him being a teacher didn't quite fit into his current reality. "Me? Did I?"

And then, as if a switch had been flipped, the smile reappeared on Lockhart's face with startling suddenness, bright and beaming once more. The speed of its return was almost alarming, as if he had quickly banished whatever uncertainty had crept into his mind. "Taught you everything you know, I expect, did I?" he continued, the old bravado rushing back. "Well, how about those autographs, then? Shall we say a round dozen? You can give them to all your little friends, and nobody will be left out!"

Before any of them could respond, a head suddenly poked out of a door at the far end of the corridor. The voice that followed was warm, with a touch of mild scolding, calling out, "Gilderoy, you naughty boy, where have you wandered off to?"

A motherly-looking Healer, her hair adorned with a festive tinsel wreath, came bustling up the corridor. Her smile was broad and welcoming as she approached Harry and the others, her eyes crinkling with genuine warmth. "Oh, Gilderoy, you've got visitors! How lovely, and on Christmas Day, too! Do you know, he never gets visitors, poor lamb, and I can't think why. He's such a sweetie, aren't you?" Her tone was doting, as if she were speaking to a cherished child rather than a former celebrity.

"We're doing autographs!" Lockhart announced with enthusiasm, his smile glittering as he spoke. "They want loads of them, won't take no for an answer! I just hope we've got enough photographs!" He puffed up with pride, his delusion so deeply ingrained that it seemed impossible to break.

Dawn rolled her eyes and shook her head, unable to hide her exasperation. "He's crazy, literally," she muttered, her voice low but filled with a mix of disbelief and pity.

Buffy nodded in agreement, her expression mirroring Dawn's. "We're not visiting…" she began, attempting to clarify the situation.

But the Healer, clearly enamored with Lockhart's harmless antics, interrupted Buffy. "Listen to him," she said, her voice fond as she took Lockhart's arm gently, as though guiding a small child. She beamed at him, her expression one of affectionate indulgence. "He was rather well known a few years ago; we very much hope that this liking for giving autographs is a sign that his memory might be starting to come back. Will you step this way? He's in a closed ward, you know, he must have slipped out while I was bringing in the Christmas presents. The door's usually kept locked... not that he's dangerous!" she added quickly, her voice dropping to a whisper as she glanced around, making sure they understood. "But he's a bit of a danger to himself, bless him... doesn't know who he is, you see, wanders off and can't remember how to get back... it is nice of you to have come to see him." Her words carried a gentle plea, as if she were asking them to humor Lockhart in his confused state.

"Er," Ron began, his hand gesturing uselessly toward the floor above where they had originally been headed. "Actually, we were just — er —" His voice trailed off as he saw the hopeful expression on the Healer's face, her eyes bright with expectation.

The group exchanged helpless glances, their resolve crumbling under the weight of the Healer's sincere smile. They turned to Buffy, who sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly as she nodded in reluctant agreement. There was a collective understanding that they couldn't refuse without seeming heartless. With a resigned air, they followed Lockhart and his Healer along the corridor, their footsteps echoing softly in the quiet hallway.

"Let's not stay long," Ron whispered urgently, his voice carrying a note of pleading as they neared the ward.

The Healer, oblivious to their hesitation, pointed her wand at the door of the Janus Thickey Ward and muttered, "Alohomora." The lock clicked, and the door swung open, revealing the dimly lit room beyond. She led the way inside, her tone now low and respectful as she spoke. "This is our long-term residents' ward," she informed them, her voice softening with a touch of solemnity. "For permanent spell damage, you know. Of course, with intensive remedial potions and charms and a bit of luck, we can produce some improvement. Gilderoy does seem to be getting back some sense of himself; and we've seen a real improvement in Mr. Bode. He seems to be regaining the power of speech very well, though he isn't speaking any language we recognize yet. Well, I must finish giving out the Christmas presents, I'll leave you all to chat."

They looked around as the Healer gently guided Lockhart into a chair next to a bed. With a childlike enthusiasm, he immediately pulled a stack of pictures toward him, his movements quick and practiced as he began signing them with sweeping flourishes. Each time he completed one, he tossed it into Ginny's lap with a triumphant flick of his wrist.

"You can put them in envelopes," Lockhart said, his tone as grand as if he were giving her an important task. He continued signing, barely looking up as he spoke, his voice carrying the same exaggerated charm he had always used in his prime. "I am not forgotten, you know, no, I still receive a very great deal of fan mail... Gladys Gudgeon writes weekly... I just wish I knew why... I suspect it is simply my good looks..." His voice trailed off into a self-satisfied murmur, as if he were savoring the thought.

Buffy rolled her eyes, the gesture a mix of exasperation and disbelief. She leaned closer to Hermione, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Was he like this before he lost his memory?"

Hermione nodded, her expression reflecting a mix of amusement and frustration. "He always was full of himself," she whispered back, her tone tinged with the exasperation of someone who had suffered through too many of Lockhart's pompous speeches. "He was the worst professor we had for DADA. And as you know, that's saying something, considering who your co-professor was last year and who your co-professor is this year." Hermione's eyes glinted with the memory of those grueling classes. "You should have seen his test at the beginning of the year. All the questions were about him."

Buffy shook her head in disgust, her lips pressing into a thin line as she imagined the kind of arrogance it took to center an entire exam around oneself.

Dawn, who had been listening intently, leaned in closer, her curiosity piqued. "So why did Dumbledore hire him?" she whispered, her brows furrowing as she tried to understand how someone so self-absorbed could have been given such an important role.

Hermione sighed, a soft breath of regret. "In the beginning, no one knew he was a fraud," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the soft rustling of the ward. "They really believed he did all the things he wrote about. In fact, at the beginning, I was very much a fangirl myself." She cast a rueful glance at Lockhart, who was now humming a little tune as he signed another photo. "It wasn't till close to the end of the year that anyone actually found out the truth."

As Dawn and Hermione exchanged looks, their eyes wandered around the ward. The curtains had been drawn back from the two beds at the end of the room, revealing the occupants within. Two visitors were walking back down the aisle between the beds, their footsteps quiet on the cold floor. One of the visitors was a familiar figure, his face solemn and withdrawn—Neville Longbottom.

Buffy's eyes widened as she recognized Neville. The memories of the conversation they had shared the year before flooded back, the pain in Neville's voice as he had spoken of his parents, their tragic fate weighing heavily on him.

"Neville," Ron said suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet as he, too, spotted the boy.

Neville jumped at the sound of Ron's voice, his entire body flinching as though he had narrowly avoided a deadly curse. His wide eyes darted around, his face pale with a mixture of surprise and dread.

"It's us, Neville!" said Ron brightly, rising to his feet with a casual cheerfulness that seemed completely out of place. He gestured towards Lockhart, who was still happily signing autographs. "Have you seen—? Lockhart's here! Who've you been visiting?"

"Ron!" Buffy's voice cut through the air, sharp and authoritative, like a general reigning in a careless soldier. The warning in her tone was unmistakable, and Ron immediately realized his mistake, his cheerful expression faltering.

Before Neville could respond, a tall, imposing figure swept towards them, her presence commanding and dignified. "Friends of yours, Neville, dear?" said Neville's grandmother, her voice gracious yet carrying an undercurrent of steely strength as she approached them. Her gaze, piercing and astute, fell upon the group with the weight of someone who had seen much of the world and was not easily impressed.

Neville looked as though he wished the ground would swallow him whole, his discomfort palpable as his grandmother reached their side.

"Ah, yes," Mrs. Longbottom said, her sharp eyes narrowing as she looked closely at Harry. With a certain air of formality, she extended a shriveled, clawlike hand for him to shake, her grip surprisingly firm. "Yes, yes, I know who you are, of course. Neville speaks most highly of you."

"Er — thanks," Harry replied, a bit awkwardly as he took her hand, feeling the dry, papery skin against his own.

Mrs. Longbottom's gaze then shifted to Ron and Ginny, her eyes sweeping over them with the practiced air of someone who could assess lineage and character in a single glance. "And you two are clearly Weasleys," she continued, her tone holding a note of respect as she offered her hand to them in turn. "Yes, I know your parents — not well, of course — but fine people, fine people..."

Her eyes then landed on Hermione, who stood slightly apart with Buffy and Dawn. Mrs. Longbottom's expression softened slightly, recognizing the change in Hermione's appearance. "And you must be Hermione Granger?"

Hermione nodded, her voice steady as she corrected, "Actually, it's Hermione Summers now. And these are my sisters, Buffy and Dawn. Buffy is a Professor at Hogwarts."

A flicker of surprise crossed Mrs. Longbottom's face before it quickly morphed into approval. "Yes, Neville's told me all about you," she said, her tone more familiar now, as if recognizing kindred spirits. "Helped him out of a few sticky spots, haven't you?" She glanced at Neville with a mixture of pride and sternness. "He's a good boy," she continued, her voice tinged with the bittersweet regret of one who had seen dreams unfulfilled. "But he hasn't got his father's talent, I'm afraid to say."

"I am Neville's teacher for Defense Against the Dark Arts," Buffy said, her voice steady and filled with quiet respect for the boy standing awkwardly beside his formidable grandmother.

Mrs. Longbottom's expression softened slightly, a hint of pride flickering in her sharp eyes. "Yes, I believe I remember Neville mentioning you last year. You helped him when that awful Professor Moody showed the class the Unforgivables." Her voice carried a note of approval, recognizing Buffy's role in guiding Neville through such a traumatic experience.

Buffy nodded, her gaze briefly meeting Neville's as she continued, "Dawn, Hermione, and I know what it's like to lose a parent." Her words were heavy with unspoken understanding, a silent acknowledgment of shared pain.

Ron, who had been listening intently, suddenly looked astonished. "What?" he exclaimed, his voice filled with shock. "Is that your parents down the end, Neville?" His eyes widened as the realization hit him, a mixture of disbelief and concern etched across his face.

Mrs. Longbottom's head snapped around, her tone sharp and authoritative. "What's this?" she demanded, her voice like a whip crack in the suddenly tense atmosphere. "Haven't you told your friends about your parents, Neville?" Her gaze bore into him, fierce and expectant, as if daring him to hide the truth any longer.

Neville took a deep, shaky breath, his chest rising and falling as he stared up at the ceiling, trying to gather the courage to speak. His face was pale, and his hands trembled slightly as he shook his head, the weight of his secret pressing down on him. The only person he had confided in about his parents was Buffy, and even then, it had taken all his strength to share that deeply buried pain.

Buffy, sensing his turmoil, shook her head gently. "He told me, but I kept his confidence," she said softly, her voice filled with empathy. She knew the agony of carrying such a burden, the fear of judgment, the struggle to protect the memory of those lost.

Mrs. Longbottom's eyes flashed with anger, though it was not directed at Buffy. "Well, it's nothing to be ashamed of!" she said fiercely, her voice ringing with indignation. "You should be proud, Neville, proud! They didn't give their health and their sanity so their only son would be ashamed of them, you know!" Her words were sharp, but they held an undeniable truth, a mother's fierce love for her child and the sacrifice that had been made.

"I'm not ashamed," Neville whispered, his voice barely audible. His eyes were downcast, and his shoulders slumped under the weight of his grandmother's expectations.

"Well, you've got a funny way of showing it!" Mrs. Longbottom retorted, her tone cutting but laced with an undercurrent of deep, unyielding love. She turned her gaze to Harry, Buffy, Ron, Hermione, Dawn, and Ginny, her posture stiff and proud. "My son and his wife," she said, her voice trembling slightly as she spoke, "were tortured into insanity by You-Know-Who's followers."

Hermione, Ron, Dawn, and Harry exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions filled with a mixture of sympathy and shock. When they looked to Buffy for confirmation, she gave a solemn nod. "That's what Neville told me," Buffy said softly, her voice tinged with sadness.

The reality of Neville's situation hit them like a wave. Hermione, Dawn, and Ginny immediately clapped their hands over their mouths, as if to hold back their emotions, their eyes wide with a mix of horror and pity. Ron, who had been craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Neville's parents, suddenly froze, his face flushing with embarrassment and guilt for his curiosity. He looked utterly mortified, as though he wished he could take back his words.

Mrs. Longbottom, however, seemed unfazed by the group's reaction, her voice carrying on with the same pride and sorrow. "They were Aurors, you know, and very well respected within the wizarding community," she continued, her tone tinged with a nostalgic reverence. "Highly gifted, the pair of them. I—yes, Alice dear, what is it?"

The sight of Neville's mother approaching was both heartbreaking and haunting. She moved slowly down the ward, her nightdress swaying with each tentative step. There was a fragility to her movements, a sense of someone lost in the labyrinth of their own mind. She didn't speak—perhaps she couldn't—but her eyes were fixed on Neville, filled with a flicker of recognition and a mother's instinctive need to connect with her child. In her outstretched hand, she held something small and crumpled.

"Again?" Mrs. Longbottom's voice softened, though it carried a hint of weariness, the kind that comes from witnessing the same heartbreaking ritual countless times. "Very well, Alice dear, very well—Neville, take it, whatever it is."

But Neville didn't need to be told. He had already extended his hand, his fingers trembling slightly as they met his mother's. Into his palm, she gently placed an empty wrapper of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum. It was a small, seemingly insignificant gesture, yet it held an entire universe of meaning between mother and son.

"Very nice, dear," Mrs. Longbottom said, her voice neutral, as though trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy in this most abnormal of situations. But there was a softness in her eyes as she watched the exchange, a quiet acceptance of the bittersweet moment.

Neville, his voice barely above a whisper, said, "Thanks, Mum." The words were simple, but they carried a depth of emotion that only those who have suffered such losses can truly understand. His mother, having completed her task, turned and tottered back up the ward, humming softly to herself, a tune that seemed to belong to a different time, a different life.

Buffy watched the scene unfold with a heavy heart. A deep sigh escaped her lips as she thought of her own mother, Joyce. She had often feared that the tumor might steal away Joyce's essence, leaving behind a shell much like Neville's mother. Seeing Alice Longbottom now, Buffy felt a surge of gratitude that her mother hadn't suffered this same fate, but the sight still tugged at her soul, reminding her of the fragility of life and the unseen battles others fought every day.

"Well, we'd better get back," sighed Mrs. Longbottom, her voice carrying a weary resignation. "Very nice to have met you all. And Ms. Summers, you keep right on teaching at Hogwarts. Yours is one of Neville's favorite classes, along with Herbology, he told me."

Buffy offered a genuine smile, her eyes reflecting both gratitude and a hint of sadness. "Thank you. I intend to, at least till my sister's leave Hogwarts anyways. We'll see what happens after that."

Mrs. Longbottom nodded approvingly, her face softening with a motherly warmth. "Neville, put that wrapper in the bin, she must have given you enough of them to paper your bedroom by now."

Neville, who had been standing quietly, cast one last glance at his mother's retreating figure. He carefully folded the empty wrapper, then, with a small, resigned sigh, walked towards the bin. His grandmother, with a final glance of approval, ushered him towards the door. As it closed behind them, a quiet finality settled over the ward.

In the wake of their departure, an air of somber reflection enveloped the group. Hermione, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, broke the silence. "I never knew," she said, her voice trembling with the weight of newfound understanding.

"Nor did I," Ron added, his tone rough with emotion, his usual bravado replaced by a raw, heartfelt sincerity.

"Nor me," whispered Ginny, her gaze fixed on the closed door, her youthful face etched with a mixture of empathy and shock.

Dawn, her own heart heavy with the weight of the revelation, nodded in agreement. "I didn't either," she said quietly, her voice barely more than a breath.

They all turned to look at Harry and Buffy, their eyes searching for some form of solace or explanation.

"I did," Harry said glumly, his expression darkening with the burden of the secret he had carried. "Dumbledore told me, but I promised I wouldn't tell anyone... that's what Bellatrix Lestrange got sent to Azkaban for, using the Cruciatus Curse on Neville's parents until they lost their minds."

Buffy nodded, her own heart aching with the shared knowledge. "Neville told me when I pulled him into the office during the Unforgivable curses lecture."

"Bellatrix Lestrange did that?" whispered Hermione, her voice trembling with horror as the grim reality of the situation sank in. Her eyes widened, reflecting the depth of her shock and the profound impact of the revelation. "That woman Kreacher's got a photo of in his den?"

Buffy sighed deeply, the weight of the truth settling heavily on her shoulders. She nodded somberly, her expression mirroring the gravity of the situation. "That's what Neville told me," she said quietly, her voice carrying the exhaustion of bearing such painful knowledge. "And if Dumbledore told Harry, it must be true."