Save a dance for me Chapter 4, a harry potter fanfic

Save a dance for me.

Chapter 4

Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory stood at the heart of the maze, breathing hard, their wands raised. They had both reached the Triwizard Cup at the same time, its gleaming surface reflecting their tired, determined faces. Neither of them wanted to make the first move toward it, neither wanted to claim it outright. There was a sense of mutual respect between the two champions, a feeling that had grown over the course of the tournament.

Harry was the first to speak, still catching his breath. "You told me about the dragons, Cedric. You take the Cup."

Cedric shook his head, refusing the offer. "And you told me about the egg. You deserve it, Harry."

The two stood there, silently weighing their options. They had each helped the other through the challenges, and now, here they were, standing together at the very end, both deserving of the win.

After a moment of consideration, Cedric broke the silence with an idea. "How about we duel for it? Winner takes the Cup."

Harry thought it over, glancing at the Cup, then back at Cedric. It felt like the only fair option. He nodded. "All right. Duel for it."

They took their positions a few feet apart, their wands raised, ready to face off. Harry could feel the tension in the air, the weight of the task bearing down on them. He met Cedric's eyes, and they exchanged a brief nod of respect.

"On three," Cedric said, his grip tightening on his wand. "One... two... three!"

Immediately, spells erupted from both boys' wands. Cedric fired off a Stunner, which Harry narrowly dodged. Harry countered with a Disarming Charm, but Cedric blocked it with a shield. They circled each other, firing spell after spell, their wands a blur of movement. Harry was amazed at how quick and skilled Cedric was, constantly forcing him to adjust his tactics.

For a moment, Cedric thought his Jelly-Legs Jinx had landed—Harry stumbled, his balance shifting. But before Cedric could capitalize on the moment, Harry rebounded the jinx with a swift flick of his wand, sending it right back toward Cedric. Cedric dove to the side, narrowly avoiding his own spell, but the movement left him vulnerable.

In that split second, Harry seized the opportunity.

"Stupefy!" Harry's Stunner hit Cedric squarely in the chest, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Harry stood there for a moment, catching his breath. He hadn't wanted to win this way—not against Cedric, who had fought so well. But there was no time for regret. He quickly crossed the remaining distance to the Triwizard Cup, reaching out to claim his victory.

But the moment his hand closed around the Cup, everything changed.

The world spun violently, and before he knew it, Harry was being yanked away from the maze, from Hogwarts... into darkness.

…

Harry Potter hit the ground hard, disoriented and confused. He had expected cheers, lights, and the excitement of winning the Triwizard Tournament. But instead, he found himself in a dark, eerie graveyard. Cold mist clung to the ground, and the silence was suffocating.

His confusion quickly turned to horror when he saw the shadowy figures emerging from the mist—Death Eaters. And standing before him was the one figure he had feared more than any other: Voldemort.

What followed was chaos.

Harry found himself running, dodging curses, his heart pounding as he raced through the maze of gravestones. Spells flew past him, Death Eaters closing in from all sides. Every instinct screamed for him to escape, but there was no easy way out.

His only hope was the Triwizard Cup, now lying discarded a short distance away. He ducked behind a gravestone, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His left arm throbbed painfully, and the mark where Voldemort had touched him burned like fire.

'I have to get back to Hogwarts, I have to warn them', Harry thought desperately, his eyes fixed on the Cup. 'I have to get the Cup.'

Summoning all the strength he had left, Harry shot out from behind the gravestone, his wand extended. "Stupefy!" Two Death Eaters dropped to the ground. His eyes locked onto the Cup—it was so close. But before he could reach it, a heavy weight crashed into him, knocking him to the ground. Pain shot through his left shoulder, but Harry didn't hesitate. He raised his wand, shooting a spell over his shoulder. "Impedimenta!"

The weight lifted, and Harry scrambled to his feet, feeling a strange warmth spreading across his back. He didn't stop to check what it was—his only focus was on the Cup. He raised his wand, pointing it at his only way home. "ACCIO!" he shouted, pouring every ounce of magic he had left into the spell.

The Triwizard Cup shot into his outstretched hand, and with it, the familiar jerk behind his navel as the Portkey activated.

Moments later, Harry slammed into the grounds of Hogwarts, his body hitting the ground with a thud. The pain in his left arm was excruciating, and a strange coldness spread over his back where the warmth had been before. He lay there, disoriented, until he felt someone gently turning him onto his back.

Albus Dumbledore's familiar blue eyes came into view, filled with concern. Harry opened his mouth to speak, his voice barely a whisper. "He's back... Voldemort... is back." Then everything went black.

…

Cedric Diggory stumbled out of the maze, his legs barely able to carry him after the duel with Harry. He was still trying to process everything that had happened. The duel had been intense, and Harry had bested him, but Cedric didn't feel bitter about it. He had fought well, and so had Harry.

He reached the entrance to the maze, expecting to hear cheers for Harry's victory, to see the Cup raised high in celebration. But instead of applause, he was greeted by the sound of blood-curdling screams.

Panic gripped him as he pushed his way through the crowd, desperate to find out what had happened. And then he heard it, the words that sent a jolt of terror through him.

"HARRY POTTER'S DEAD!"

Cedric's heart dropped. He broke into a sprint, his legs carrying him faster than they ever had before, pushing through the throngs of terrified students.

…

Hermione Granger's mind had gone completely blank.

Just moments ago, she had seen Harry return to the grounds, bloody and battered. But before she could reach him, the screams had started. The crowd surged forward, and the next thing she knew, someone shouted the words she had dreaded more than anything.

"HARRY POTTER'S DEAD!"

No. It couldn't be. Not Harry.

Hermione's legs moved of their own accord, pushing her through the crowd as her mind refused to process what she had just heard. Harry couldn't be dead. He was the boy who had saved her from a mountain troll, who had stood by her through every danger they'd faced. He was a survivor. He couldn't die, not in some stupid tournament.

By the time she reached the front, Harry was already being carried away by Professor Moody, his body limp and covered in blood. The sight of him—so still, so broken—stole the breath from her lungs. Blood dripped steadily onto the ground as Moody moved, each drop echoing like a death knell in her mind.

"Ms. Granger, please follow me," someone said, their voice a distant murmur in the chaos.

But Hermione didn't hear them. Her world had collapsed in that moment, her thoughts consumed by the image of Harry's lifeless form. She barely noticed as she was led away to the hospital wing, as a potion was pressed to her lips, forcing her into a dreamless sleep. In her mind, Harry had gone somewhere she couldn't follow. He had gone on that final adventure alone.

...

Cho Chang was in complete and utter shock. She had been one of the first to reach Harry's side after the teachers, pushing through the crowd as quickly as she could. What she saw when she arrived at his side chilled her to her core. The look of terror in Harry's eyes as he whispered that Voldemort had returned... the blood covering his body, his face so pale it seemed like all life had drained from it. His breathing was shallow and ragged, and then it stopped. His body went still.

She watched helplessly as Professor Moody scooped Harry up into his arms, blood dripping from Harry's limp form, and began limping toward the castle. Professor Dumbledore had turned to speak to the Minister of Magic, leaving Moody to carry Harry away. But as soon as Dumbledore noticed, Cho saw the realization dawn on him, followed quickly by Professors Snape and McGonagall rushing after them.

Cho couldn't move. She stood frozen, staring at the retreating figures. How could Harry be dead? The boy who had captured her heart, the boy who had faced a dragon and lived, who had done so many brave things—how could he die now? It seemed impossible. Unthinkable.

But she couldn't just stand there. She couldn't let it end like this. Cho gathered her courage and followed the professors toward the castle, refusing to acknowledge the possibility that Harry might truly be gone. Her heart pounded as she trailed behind them, trying to keep up. She couldn't fathom how, just an hour ago, Harry had been alive—healthy, strong, and determined to win the Triwizard Tournament. How could he be gone now?

She followed them all the way to the castle, through the corridors and up to the hospital wing, but when they reached the entrance, she was barred from entering. Again. Left outside with her growing fear and despair, Cho waited, her anxiety intensifying with every passing second.

Soon, Hagrid arrived with her own Head of House, Professor Flitwick. Hagrid was carrying something— someone—and the way he was handling it with such care made Cho's stomach twist. Whoever it was, Hagrid was being as gentle as he possibly could be. They entered the hospital wing, disappearing behind the curtain where Harry had been taken.

Without a second thought, Cho slipped in unnoticed behind them. She moved silently toward the curtain that hid Harry's bed, listening as the professors inside spoke in hushed, worried voices.

"I'm sorry, but this is beyond my ability to heal," Madam Pomfrey said, her voice thick with emotion. "The only thing I can do for him now is make him as comfortable as possible."

Cho felt her heart plummet. No. This can't be happening.

"Are you quite sure, Poppy?" Professor McGonagall asked, her voice strained with worry. "There's nothing more you can do for him?"

"I'm afraid not, Minerva," Madam Pomfrey replied, choking back a sob.

"Albus, surely there must be something you can do?" McGonagall's voice was nearly pleading now.

"I'm sorry," Dumbledore said quietly. "But there is nothing more that can be done."

"But Albus, he's so young..." McGonagall began, but Dumbledore cut her off, his voice laced with grief.

"I know, Minerva. And I fear for what will happen when the world learns of his fate."

Cho's legs felt like they would give out beneath her. The weight of what they were saying crashed down on her. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the boy she had admired from afar and then grown to care for, was dying. And she had never told him how she truly felt. She had never told him that he had captured her heart.

Her breath came in shallow gasps, and her chest tightened painfully as panic and grief overwhelmed her. She had to see him—one last time. She couldn't let him go without telling him how much he meant to her.

Without thinking, Cho shoved the curtain aside. Her eyes landed on Harry, and she felt her heart shatter. He was lying there, unconscious, his bare chest exposed. A horrendous wound tore across his left shoulder, raw and bloody. His skin was deathly pale, his face drained of all its usual warmth and vitality. Tears welled up in Cho's eyes, and without hesitation, she reached out, her trembling hand gently caressing his cheek.

"Harry..." she whispered, her voice barely audible. But Harry didn't stir.

The sight of him like this was too much. The grief, the fear, the unbearable pain of knowing she might never hear his voice again, never see him smile again—it was all too much. Cho's vision blurred, her body weakening as the weight of her heartbreak overtook her. She collapsed to the ground beside Harry's bed, her fingers still brushing his cheek as she fainted, tears slipping from her eyes even as unconsciousness claimed her.

…

Fleur Delacour woke to an eerie silence. She blinked, disoriented, expecting the triumphant roar of the crowd, expecting to see the victor of the tournament being hoisted onto the shoulders of their schoolmates in celebration.

Instead, what she saw made her blood run cold.

Her younger sister, Gabrielle, was sobbing uncontrollably, her small frame shaking with grief. Beside her, their mother stood, her face pale and filled with sorrow, her hands gently comforting Gabrielle. Fleur sat up, confused, the icy feeling in her stomach spreading.

"Maman, what's wrong with Gabrielle? Why do you look so sad?" Fleur asked, her voice tight with worry.

"What has happened?"

Apolline Delacour's expression was one of deep sadness as she spoke. "It was the Potter boy, Fleur. He won the tournament... but I'm afraid he didn't make it. The professors... they took his body back to the castle."

Fleur felt the world shift beneath her, a dark cloud descending over her mind. Harry... dead? She had never imagined that possible. She hadn't even realized how close she had grown to him until now, until the icy realization that he might never open his eyes again. The youngest champion, the one she had shared this strange, dangerous journey with, was gone.

…

Pain. All-consuming, tearing through every fiber of Harry Potter's being.

It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. Not the bite of the basilisk, not the searing burn from the

Hungarian Horntail, not even the Cruciatus Curse from Voldemort's wand could compare to this agony. This was pain on a level beyond comprehension, pain so profound that it obliterated all sense of time, of self, of reality.

It began in his shoulder, where the jagged wound throbbed and burned. From there, the pain radiated outward, crawling slowly across his body, shredding through muscle and bone, seeping into every cell like venomous teeth sinking deep into his flesh. It spread up his neck, down his back, into his legs, his feet, his very bones. It was as though the very essence of suffering had taken root inside him, digging deeper with every second.

There was no warmth, no comfort, no light in this world of torment. Only pain. The excruciating, maddening pain that tore him apart, piece by piece.

At some point, Harry began to believe he was dead. This had to be the afterlife—an afterlife filled with nothing but agony. He had died in that graveyard. Voldemort had killed him, and this... this place of darkness and pain... this had to be hell.

And if it wasn't hell, he couldn't imagine what else it could be.

...

Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived on the Verge of Death!

The FrontPage headline of the Daily Prophet had been plastered across every table in the Great Hall yesterday morning, setting off shockwaves through the entire wizarding world. An entire day had passed since that article had first been printed, and Hogwarts had not been the same since. The students were somber, the professors tight-lipped, and whispers filled the corridors with questions that no one had the answers to.

In the hospital wing, Hermione Granger and Cho Chang were being released. Both girls had been recovering from their own collapses—Cho after the shock of seeing Harry's condition and Hermione from the emotional strain of seeing her best friend bloodied and limp. Neither of them had any news about Harry since they'd been admitted. The uncertainty gnawed at them both.

Fleur Delacour clutched a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet tightly in her hands as she made her way toward the hospital wing. She had found out about Harry's condition the morning after the Third Task when the paper first came out. The Great Hall had been eerily silent as everyone read the front-page article. She had to show Hermione and Cho what had been printed—it was better they hear it from her than stumble upon it later.

Her heart ached as she remembered the previous morning, the shock that had rippled through the school when the Prophet arrived with its devastating headline. She had seen the looks of fear and disbelief on the faces of students and professors alike. It was clear how much Harry meant to everyone, not just as a champion, but as a symbol of hope.

As Fleur approached the secluded area near the nurse's office, she noticed the curtains around the girls' beds were drawn. She couldn't hear any sound coming from behind them, but she guessed the area had been enchanted to block out noise so that they could rest in peace. Steeling herself, Fleur stepped around the curtain, and as soon as she did, she heard the anxious murmuring of two voices.

Hermione and Cho, both looking pale and desperate for news, fell silent the moment they saw her.

"Fleur!" Hermione cried, her voice filled with an edge of panic. "Please, tell us how Harry is. No one will tell us anything!"

"Is he awake? Is he okay? Please, just tell us something—anything!" Cho begged, her eyes wide with fear.

Fleur couldn't bring herself to look them in the eye. She clutched the newspaper tighter, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. She hadn't wanted to be the one to break the news, but there was no escaping it now.

"No one has seen or heard anything from Harry since he was taken away," Fleur began, her voice trembling. "He is no longer at Hogwarts. According to the Daily Prophet, he was moved to an undisclosed location, and he... he..." Fleur choked on the words, unable to continue.

She handed the rolled-up paper to Hermione and turned to leave, but before she could walk away, she glanced back at the two girls. There was a shared understanding between them, a connection forged in pain and loss. In that moment, Fleur knew they were all grieving the same thing.

"He is very brave," Fleur whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I will never forget him." And with that, Fleur Delacour was gone.

…

Hermione and Cho sat in stunned silence, both staring down at the Daily Prophet in Hermione's lap. Tears welled in their eyes, but neither girl said a word for several moments, each lost in her own thoughts.

Cho's mind was a whirlwind. She had seen Harry before she fainted, and although he had been in bad shape, she was sure—absolutely sure—that he had still been breathing. How could this be happening? How could the boy who had faced dragons, trolls, and dark wizards be on the brink of death now? It didn't make sense. Hermione, too, was lost in thought, her heart aching in a way she hadn't known was possible. Harry had been there for her through everything—he was her best friend, her first friend, the boy who had saved her life more times than she could count. The idea that he might not pull through, that he might not come back from this... it was unbearable.

Then, suddenly, Hermione sat up straighter, her tear-filled eyes blazing with determination. "He won't die," she said firmly, her voice filled with certainty. "I know he won't."

Cho looked at her, startled by the intensity of Hermione's words. "Hermione—" "No," Hermione interrupted, shaking her head fiercely. "You don't understand. He won't die.

He's Harry Potter! He's faced worse than this—trolls, Dementors, dragons, and even Voldemort. He always comes back. He always survives."

"Hermione—"

"No!" Hermione's voice rose, her fists clenching by her sides. "He can't die! He's my best friend! The first person who ever accepted me for who I am. He—"

"Hermione!" Cho interrupted, her own voice rising, startling Hermione into silence. "I wasn't saying I thought he would die. I was going to say... I don't think he will either. I saw him before I fainted. He wasn't in good shape, but he was still breathing."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Why didn't you tell me that before?"

Cho gave her a small, strained smile. "You haven't given me a chance."

Both girls sat back, the tension between them easing slightly as they exchanged weary smiles.

"The Prophet must have it wrong," Cho said quietly, her voice gaining strength. "Someone must want the world to believe Harry is dying."

Hermione nodded, her brow furrowing in thought. "You're right. There has to be something more going on here. Someone is trying to manipulate the story."

The two witches spent the rest of the morning trying to reassure each other that Harry would survive, both clinging to the hope that he would pull through. Deep down, they knew the odds were slim, but neither of them was willing to accept any other outcome.

…

Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived on the Verge of Death!

Hermione and Cho, both looking pale and desperate for news, fell silent the moment they saw her.

"Fleur!" Hermione cried, her voice filled with an edge of panic. "Please, tell us how Harry is. No one will tell us anything!"

"Is he awake? Is he okay? Please, just tell us something—anything!" Cho begged, her eyes wide with fear.

"He is very brave," Fleur whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I will never forget him." And with that, Fleur Delacour was gone.

…

Hermione, too, was lost in thought, her heart aching in a way she hadn't known was possible. Harry had been there for her through everything—he was her best friend, her first friend, the boy who had saved her life more times than she could count. The idea that he might not pull through, that he might not come back from this... it was unbearable.

Then, suddenly, Hermione sat up straighter, her tear-filled eyes blazing with determination. "He won't die," she said firmly, her voice filled with certainty. "I know he won't."

Cho looked at her, startled by the intensity of Hermione's words. "Hermione—"

"No," Hermione interrupted, shaking her head fiercely. "You don't understand. He won't die. He's Harry Potter! He's faced worse than this—trolls, Dementors, dragons, and even Voldemort. He always comes back. He always survives."

"Hermione—"

"No!" Hermione's voice rose, her fists clenching by her sides. "He can't die! He's my best friend! The first person who ever accepted me for who I am. He—"

Hermione's eyes widened. "Why didn't you tell me that before?"

Cho gave her a small, strained smile. "You haven't given me a chance."

Both girls sat back, the tension between them easing slightly as they exchanged weary smiles.

"The Prophet must have it wrong," Cho said quietly, her voice gaining strength. "Someone must want the world to believe Harry is dying."

Hermione nodded, her brow furrowing in thought. "You're right. There has to be something more going on here. Someone is trying to manipulate the story."

…

In his office, Albus Dumbledore sat with his face in his hands, the weight of the world bearing down on him. The open Daily Prophet lay on his desk, its front page glaring up at him, reminding him of the gravity of the situation.

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, on the verge of death.

The headline haunted him. First, Harry—the child of prophecy, the one destined to destroy Voldemort—had returned from the Third Task in a condition that neither Dumbledore nor Madam Pomfrey could heal. Not even Fawkes' tears had been able to mend Harry's wounds.

Then the Daily Prophet had spread the news far and wide that the savior of the wizarding world was dying, casting a shadow of despair over the entire magical community. And to make matters worse, he had two very clever and determined witches in the hospital wing demanding answers—answers that Dumbledore wasn't sure he was ready to give.

He had always known Hermione Granger was a brilliant young witch, fiercely loyal and close to Harry. She would go to any length to help her friend, rules and laws be damned. As for Cho Chang, she had clearly been deeply affected by her feelings for Harry, and Dumbledore knew she wouldn't rest until she uncovered the truth. Both girls would play a significant role in the future, and Dumbledore had to decide how much to tell them.

The sound of the office door opening interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up to see Professor McGonagall entering, her face tight with worry.

"Albus," she said without preamble, her voice brisk and urgent. "They know. Ms. Delacour went to see them this morning and left a copy of the Prophet with them. They're demanding answers—answers I believe one of them is entitled to."

Dumbledore sighed deeply, leaning back in his chair. "What would you have me do, Minerva?"

McGonagall blinked, slightly taken aback by his sincerity. She composed herself, her tone softening. "I believe you should tell Ms. Granger, at least. Even if you don't think it's wise to tell Ms. Chang, Hermione deserves to know the truth. But mark my words—the truth will come out soon, regardless. This has already gone too far."

Dumbledore nodded, his gaze somber. "You're right, Minerva. Bring Ms. Granger to my office in one hour."

McGonagall gave a sharp nod and turned to leave, her mind already whirring with the consequences of what was to come. Dumbledore sat back in his chair, staring at the open Daily Prophet once more. He knew that the road ahead was only going to get darker, and the time for secrets was quickly coming to an end.

...

Ron Weasley had not been having a good year so far. In fact, it was probably the worst year of his life. First, he had acted like a major prat to his best friend, letting jealousy blind his better judgment. Even after everything they had been through since their first year at Hogwarts—after all the dangers they'd faced together—Ron still allowed himself to side with the crowd, mistreating Harry when the whole school had turned on him after he was entered into the Triwizard Tournament.

It gnawed at him that, even after the row they'd had in the Gryffindor common room, he hadn't properly apologized. He had thought everything was fine after the First Task when their friendship seemed to be mending, but then the Yule Ball had happened—and that was when everything changed.

The closer Harry and Hermione got, the more Ron felt himself being left out. It didn't help when Neville, of all people, came up with the brilliant idea about using Gillyweed for the Second Task. The more Harry and Neville discussed and researched the magical plant, the more Ron felt obsolete. He'd even overheard Harry promising to get Neville any plant he desired as a thank-you once the tournament was over. That stung more than Ron cared to admit.

But the last straw had been the Rita Skeeter article. Ron's jealousy had reached a boiling point when he saw the pictures of Harry and what the paper dubbed his "harem" of girls. Deep down, Ron knew he had no claim to any of the three witches mentioned—Cho, Hermione, or Fleur—and he had never even discussed his feelings for Hermione with anyone. He wasn't even sure he fully understood them himself. But as the article spread around Hogwarts, Ron started to notice things he hadn't before.

Fleur Delacour, the beautiful Beauxbatons champion, would come to sit at the Gryffindor table—but only when Harry was there. She never spoke to Ron, never even acknowledged his presence, but she'd engage

Harry in conversation with that dazzling smile of hers. Viktor Krum, too, had started to hang around the Gryffindor table, and every time Ron saw him talking to Hermione, it sent a fresh wave of resentment coursing through him.

And then there was Hermione.

Ron had begun to notice the way she looked at Harry. It wasn't the usual way she looked at her best friend, but something... deeper. Whenever she thought no one was watching, she'd let her guard down, and in those unguarded moments, there was a certain softness in her eyes—almost a longing—that was reserved only for

Harry. Ron hadn't seen her smile like that for anyone else, not even him. He couldn't shake the memory of the Yule Ball, of how she had smiled while dancing with Harry, a smile that still haunted him.

Fleur was one thing, but Hermione was something completely different. The realization that Hermione might have feelings for Harry had slowly eaten away at him, causing him to pull away from both of them. He became convinced that if he distanced himself enough, they would notice, and Harry would come looking for him— Harry would do anything to keep their friendship intact.

But that hadn't happened. Instead, Neville had taken Ron's place, and Ron had found himself spending more and more time with Dean and Seamus. He hadn't even bothered to go to the Second Task, and when he heard that Hermione had been the thing Harry would miss most, it had been a devastating blow. The trio—the bond they had shared since first year—felt shattered, and Ron didn't know how to fix it.

Fred, George, and Ginny hadn't held back in letting Ron know exactly how they felt about his behavior. Ginny, in particular, had been fierce, lecturing him about how she knew what it felt like to watch someone you cared about be interested in someone else, and how you had to be happy for them, even if it wasn't with you.

When Ron had stubbornly refused to listen, she'd hexed him and told him he didn't deserve friends like Harry and Hermione. Even Fred and George had taken him aside, threatening to knock some sense into him if he didn't pull his head out of his arse.

But none of it had made a real impact on Ron—until the Third Task.

It had taken the near-death of his best friend to make him see how foolish he'd been. As Ron lay on his fourposter bed in the Gryffindor dormitory, staring at the ceiling, all he could think about was how stupid he had been. He had thrown away years of friendship over jealousy—over feelings that he had never even acknowledged out loud. And now Harry was fighting for his life in some unknown place, and Ron had no idea if he'd ever get the chance to make things right.

"As soon as Harry gets back here," Ron muttered to himself, "I'll make things right. I don't care if he never wants to speak to me again—I have to at least apologize."

…

Hermione Granger stood quietly, waiting with Professor McGonagall in Professor Dumbledore's office. Dumbledore had summoned her earlier and told her to wait here, promising that he would explain everything once he returned. That had been nearly twenty minutes ago, and Hermione's anxiety was only growing.

"Please, Professor," Hermione said, her voice tight with worry. "What is this about? You said I was going to get to see Harry."

Professor McGonagall, standing with her hands clasped tightly in front of her, gave Hermione a sympathetic look. "That is precisely why you are here, Ms. Granger. However, the headmaster has called you for another reason as well. I cannot say more until Albus returns."

Just then, with a sudden burst of flame, Professor Dumbledore appeared in the office, his eyes twinkling as he stepped forward. "My apologies, Ms. Granger, for keeping you waiting. I had to ensure that all was well before we continued." He gestured for her to come closer. "Now, if you would please take hold of my arm, we can be on our way."

He turned to McGonagall. "Minerva, please inform Madam Pomfrey to have a bed ready when we return." "And when might that be, Albus?" McGonagall asked sternly.

"First light, I expect," Dumbledore replied, turning back to Hermione. "Now, Ms. Granger, hold on tight. This mode of travel is... unique."

Before Hermione could process his words, flames engulfed her from head to toe. Panic seized her, but the fire wasn't hot. In fact, it felt warm—comforting, even. Within moments, the flames dissipated, and she found herself standing in a dimly lit, unfamiliar room. The wallpaper was peeling, and a long, narrow hallway stretched behind her, ending at a front door.

Before Hermione could gather her bearings, Dumbledore placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "Before we go any further, Ms. Granger, you must understand something. Whatever you discover beyond this point must remain between you and Harry. His condition is not to be shared with anyone, not yet. Do you understand?" Hermione, steeling herself for whatever was to come, nodded solemnly. "Yes, Professor."

"Very good," Dumbledore said, leading her down a small flight of stairs to a door at the far end of the room. He paused, then opened the door, stepping aside to let Hermione enter first.

What she saw on the other side made her blood run cold.

At the far end of what appeared to be an abandoned kitchen was a large, heavily reinforced cage. But it wasn't the cage that frightened her—it was the creature inside it.

The beast crouched within the enchanted bars, its hulking, massive frame covered in thick, dark muscle, with patches of thin, dark fur covering its body. It was like nothing Hermione had ever seen, except maybe in the darkest corners of a nightmare. It was a lycanthrope, yes, but not like the werewolves described in textbooks. It was more monstrous, more primal.

Its form was almost humanoid, towering and muscular, with powerful limbs and elongated fingers that ended in vicious claws sharp enough to tear through steel. Its elongated snout was filled with jagged fangs that gleamed in the low light, and its breath came in low, deep growls. The creature's back was hunched, giving it an almost wolf-like posture as it crouched in the cage, its movements tense and predatory, ready to strike at any moment.

But none of that terrified Hermione more than the creature's eyes.

Bright, glowing emerald, green eyes.

The creature's glowing eyes locked onto hers, and for a split second, Hermione saw a flicker of recognition in those terrifying, predatory eyes. But it was fleeting, and soon the monster's gaze darkened, its growl deepening as it backed further into the shadows of the cage, its claws flexing in response to her presence.

Hermione's heart pounded in her chest as she stared at the beast, her voice trembling as she took a step closer. "Harry?"