The moon was bright above them, its light casting silvery patterns across the frost-covered grass. Harry adjusted his grip on the Invisibility Cloak, ensuring it still draped over them both as he glanced around the quiet meadow.

"This is far enough," he whispered, his breath misting in the cold air.

Daphne nodded, her expression calm but focused as she crouched down and pulled a small crystal phial from her robes. She held it in one hand, while in the other, she carefully removed the shrivelled mandrake leaf from her mouth.

"Finally," she muttered, her voice low. "I thought I'd choke on this thing before the month was up."

Harry grinned faintly, kneeling beside her. "You're not the first to say that. I read that half the Animagus candidates give up before this step. Guess you're tougher than most."

Her lips quirked in a small smirk as she placed the leaf into the phial, holding it up to catch the moonlight. The clear crystal shimmered faintly as the moon's rays struck it directly, illuminating the leaf's dark, twisted veins.

"That's it," she said softly, lowering the phial. "Now for the next part." She tugged a strand of her hair free and added it to the phial, watching it coil around the mandrake leaf like a fine thread.

Harry reached into his pocket and handed her a tiny vial of dew. "Straight from the Forbidden Forest. I don't even want to think about how long it took the house-elves to collect this without breaking the rules."

Daphne arched an eyebrow but took the vial with a quiet "Thanks," pouring a precise measure into the phial. The dew glimmered briefly as it mixed with the other ingredients, the liquid taking on a faint silvery hue.

She stared at the phial for a long moment before glancing at Harry. "The chrysalis?"

He shook his head. "No luck. Even Hagrid hasn't seen a Death's-head Hawk Moth in years. We'll have to track one down over the holidays."

Daphne sighed but didn't seem surprised. "Figures. No point in rushing this anyway. The longer we prepare, the better our chances."

Harry nodded, leaning back slightly as he studied the moonlit meadow. "At least you're through the worst of it," he said, glancing at her. "The hard part's done."

"For now," she replied, capping the phial and tucking it carefully into her robes. She paused, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "Thanks for this, Potter. Sneaking me out here, the dew—everything."

Harry shrugged. "You'd have done the same for me."

The moonlight danced across the still surface of the Black Lake, turning the ripples into shimmering silver. Harry and Daphne sat side by side on the bank, wrapped in the quiet stillness of the night. The Invisibility Cloak lay forgotten in a heap behind them, though Harry kept a wary ear out for any signs of nearby movement.

Daphne pulled her cloak tighter around herself, her gaze fixed on the lake. "It feels strange," she said after a long silence. "Letting go of the leaf after all this time. Like I've been carrying it forever."

Harry nodded, leaning back on his hands. "You'll get used to it. Besides, the hardest part is over—unless you count finding that chrysalis."

She huffed a quiet laugh but didn't respond immediately. The silence stretched again, comfortable this time, until Harry shifted slightly.

"Daphne," he began, his tone careful. "Can I… check again? See if there's anything different now that the leaf's had time to settle?"

She didn't answer right away, her eyes still on the lake. Then, without a word, she leaned her head against his shoulder, the weight light but deliberate. He felt the faintest shift in her Occlumency shields, the practiced defences parting slightly, just for him.

Harry didn't need more of an answer. Closing his eyes, he reached out carefully, letting his magic brush the surface of her mind like a feather grazing water.

This time, the flow of thoughts and energy was different—subtler, more fluid. He could feel faint traces of something new, something alive, interwoven into her consciousness like a second pulse. It wasn't fully formed, but it wasn't entirely dormant either. The residue of the Animagus process, perhaps? Whatever it was, it was unlike anything he'd encountered before.

He pulled back just as gently, withdrawing his magic without lingering. Opening his eyes, he glanced down at Daphne, who hadn't moved.

"There's… something," he said softly, his brow furrowing. "It's not big, and it's not active yet, but it's there. Like a seed waiting to grow."

Daphne tilted her head up slightly, her expression unreadable. "Is that good or bad?"

"Neither," Harry replied honestly. "It's just… progress."

She nodded, leaning back slightly to sit up properly. Her shields reasserted themselves almost immediately, but not in a way that felt hostile. "Progress," she echoed, her tone neutral but thoughtful. "I guess that's something."

"It is," Harry said, meeting her gaze. "You're on the right track."

Daphne offered a faint smile, brief but genuine. "Thanks, Potter." She turned her attention back to the lake, her voice softening. "You know, this might be the most effort I've ever put into anything. I'm still not sure if I'm going to regret it."

"You won't," Harry said simply. "Not if this is what you want."

She didn't answer, her gaze lost in the rippling water. For a while, neither of them spoke, the quiet of the night wrapping around them like a shared secret.

The stillness of the night seemed to stretch endlessly, the only sounds the soft lapping of the lake and the faint rustling of the trees. Harry allowed himself a moment of comfort, leaning back slightly and letting the quiet settle over him like a blanket.

And then it shattered.

Pain lanced through his scar, sharp and sudden, like a knife slicing through his thoughts. Harry gasped, clutching his forehead as the world around him dissolved into darkness.

"Harry!"

The voice was low and insistent, curling through his mind like smoke. He recognised it instantly—Tom Riddle.

Images flooded his vision, fragmented and blurred at first, but quickly sharpening into horrifying clarity. A long, dimly lit corridor stretched out before him, the polished floor reflecting faint blue light. At the end of the hallway stood a plain, unmarked door, its surface gleaming faintly.

The scene shifted abruptly, and Harry found himself inside the room. The blue light pulsed more strongly here, casting eerie shadows across the walls. A massive, coiled shape moved in the centre of the space—Nagini. Her scales gleamed, her body undulating as she struck.

The vision jolted again, sharper this time. Mr Weasley lay sprawled on the floor, blood pooling around him, his face pale and contorted with pain. His wand was clenched in one trembling hand, but it was clear he couldn't defend himself. Nagini reared back, her fangs dripping with venom as she prepared to strike again.

"He's dying." Tom's voice cracked slightly, uncharacteristically strained. "He doesn't have long."

Harry's breath caught, and the scene snapped back to the hallway, the blue door shrinking as though pulling away from him.

The pain in his scar ebbed, and the world rushed back into focus. He was back by the lake, Daphne's voice cutting through the haze.

"Harry!" she said sharply, her hand gripping his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

He blinked, still dazed, his heart pounding in his chest. "Arthur Weasley," he managed, his voice hoarse. "He's under attack. At the Ministry."

Grabbing the Invisibility Cloak, Harry shot to his feet, grabbing Daphne's arm without hesitation. "Come on," he said, his voice clipped with urgency.

"What—Harry, what's going on?" Daphne demanded, stumbling slightly as he tugged her forward, the lake and their moment of calm already forgotten.

"No time," he replied, pulling his mithril slate from his pocket as they moved. The surface glowed faintly as he tapped it, a message already forming under his hand. Dumbledore—Arthur Weasley. Attacked. The Ministry. Nagini.He sent it with a flick of his thumb, watching the text disappear into the slate's shifting mist.

"Attacked?" Daphne pressed, her voice sharper now as she matched his stride. "What do you mean, attacked?"

"Tom saw it," Harry said shortly, glancing around the dark grounds as they hurried toward the castle. "I don't know how long he's got. We need to get to Dumbledore—now."

Daphne's expression shifted, concern flickering in her eyes, but she didn't argue.

As they climbed the stone steps leading to the castle, Harry's mind raced. He tried to push the thought of Arthur bleeding on the floor out of his head, but the image lingered, vivid and unrelenting.

"Fawkes," he called out quietly, his voice urgent but steady. "Fawkes I need to get to Dumbledore— Mr. Weasley's life is at stake!"

There was no response.

Harry's heart sank as they reached the castle doors, opening it with a thrust of his hand. "Fawkes!" he tried again, frustration threading through his thoughts. The silence that followed felt deafening.

"Why isn't he answering?" Daphne asked, watching him as they hurried through the dimly lit corridors.

Harry shook his head, jaw tight. "He usually comes when I call, but… Fawkes is free… He doesn't have to come."

Daphne didn't reply immediately, but the tension in her expression deepened. "Then we move faster."

Harry nodded grimly, quickening his pace as they approached the gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office. The slate in his hand vibrated faintly, a response flickering onto the surface.Already awake. Come immediately.

The gargoyle leapt aside before Harry could even say the password, and the spiral staircase began to turn. Without hesitation, he dragged Daphne onto it, the weight of the moment pressing on them both.

The spiral staircase carried them upward in a smooth, almost dreamlike motion, but the tension in Harry's chest kept the moment anything but calm. As the door to Dumbledore's office came into view, Harry pushed it open without waiting to knock, pulling Daphne in behind him.

The room was cloaked in half-darkness. Strange silver instruments on the tables stood silent and still, their usual whirring and puffs of smoke absent. The portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses snoozed in their frames, their gentle snores filling the quiet air.

Behind the door, the magnificent red-and-gold phoenix dozed on its perch with its head tucked under its wing. Harry's stomach clenched at the sight. So that's why he didn't come.

Dumbledore was seated in a high-backed chair behind his desk, leaning slightly forward into the pool of candlelight illuminating the papers before him. He was dressed in a dark blue sleeping robe, embroidered with stars that shimmered faintly in the light, though his face was sharp and alert, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Harry.

"Harry," Dumbledore said simply, his voice calm but with an undertone of gravity. His gaze shifted briefly to Daphne, his eyes softening. "Miss Greengrass."

"Sir," Harry blurted, stepping forward. "Arthur Weasley—he's under attack, at the Ministry. Nagini—she—"

"Calm yourself, Harry," Dumbledore said gently but firmly, raising a hand to still him. "I saw your message. What exactly did you witness?"

Harry glanced at Daphne, who stood silently at his side, her expression a mix of confusion and quiet alarm. He took a deep breath, forcing his thoughts into order. "Tom showed me a vision—a corridor at the Ministry, a blue door, and inside… Mr Weasley. He was guarding something. Nagini attacked him—she bit him, there was blood everywhere, and—"

Dumbledore's expression darkened, though his composure remained steady. "And Tom sent you this vision directly?"

"Yes," Harry said, his voice tight. "He sounded… panicked. He said Mr Weasley didn't have long."

Dumbledore's gaze flicked to Fawkes, who remained asleep on his perch. For a fleeting moment, something unreadable passed over his face, but it was gone before Harry could place it.

"I see," Dumbledore murmured, standing from his chair with a quiet rustle of fabric. "This is a most grave matter." He moved toward one of the silent silver instruments, his long fingers brushing its surface lightly as he seemed to consider his next steps, slowly manipulating the smoke that came from them.

"Professor," Daphne spoke up, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. "Is this vision real? Is Arthur Weasley actually—"

Dumbledore turned to her, his expression unreadably calm. "I believe it would be unwise to dismiss the warning, Miss Greengrass. Harry's connection to Tom Riddle has proven reliable before."

Harry shifted on his feet, his fists clenched. "We have to do something—he is dying!"

"And we will act," Dumbledore said firmly, his eyes meeting Harry's. "But we must act carefully. The Ministry will not respond well to us intervening without evidence. Harry, are you certain of what you saw?"

"Yes," Harry said without hesitation.

Dumbledore nodded once, crossing to the fireplace and throwing Floo Powder inside. "Very well. Minerva McGonagall!"

McGonagall's head appeared in the green flames, her square spectacles slightly askew and her expression sharp with worry. "Albus? What is it?"

"Please join us in my office, Minerva," Dumbledore said, his tone firm but calm. "It is a matter of some urgency."

Without another word, McGonagall disappeared from the flames. Moments later, the flames flared again as she stepped from the hearth, her robes slightly rumpled, her brow furrowed in concern.

"What's going on?" she asked, her gaze darting between Harry, Daphne, and Dumbledore.

"We must act quickly," Dumbledore said, his tone grave. "Minerva, I need you to gather the Weasley boys immediately. Their father has been hurt—it is imperative they get here without delay, and preferably without drawing attention."

McGonagall nodded, already moving toward the door. "I'll bring them at once," she said, her tone clipped but resolute.

As the door closed softly behind her, Dumbledore turned, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on one of the old portraits hanging near the ceiling. "Everard? And you too, Dilys!"

The sallow-faced wizard with short, black bangs and the elderly witch with silver ringlets stirred in their frames, their eyes snapping open.

"You were listening?" Dumbledore asked, his voice sharp but measured.

The wizard gave a curt nod, while the witch said, "Naturally."

"The man has red hair and glasses," Dumbledore continued briskly. "Everard, raise the alarm and ensure he is found by the right people. Dilys, observe the area discreetly. Report back to me at once."

Both portraits nodded before slipping sideways out of their frames. Their absence left the room feeling oddly hollow, as though the space had lost a part of its vitality.

For a moment, Dumbledore remained still, his eyes flicking to the silent phoenix perched beside the door. Harry's gaze followed, his stomach twisting as Dumbledore approached the magnificent bird.

Reaching out, Dumbledore stroked Fawkes's golden head gently. The phoenix finally stirred, his bright, dark eyes slowly opening as he stretched his elegant neck.

"We will need," Dumbledore said softly, his voice almost a whisper, "a warning."

Fawkes let out a low, melodious trill, his feathers shimmering in the dim light. In an instant, he was gone—a brilliant flash of fire leaving only a faint, smoky afterimage in his wake.

Dumbledore turned back toward Harry and Daphne, his voice shifting into a calmer, more measured tone. "Everard and Dilys were two of Hogwarts's most celebrated heads, and their renown extends beyond these walls. Their portraits hang in other institutions of great importance, where—"

"Iknow," Harry cut in sharply, his fists clenched at his sides. "Professor, I know how it works. That's not the point."

Dumbledore's calm blue eyes fixed on Harry, unreadable but piercing. "Then what is the point, Harry?"

"You sent Mr. Weasley there," Harry said, his voice low but tight. "He was there on your orders, wasn't he? Guarding something important."

Daphne shot Harry a sidelong glance, her brow furrowed, but she stayed silent as Dumbledore regarded him with a calm, measured expression. "Arthur Weasley is a trusted member of the Order," he said evenly. "His presence at the Ministry was not coincidental. That much is true. But that is also why we must tread carefully."

Harry opened his mouth to argue but hesitated, his mind caught between his anger and his growing dread. "If this vision is real," he said, his voice quieter now, "then every second we waste—"

"Harry." Dumbledore's voice cut through, firm but not unkind. "You are not wrong. Time is of the essence, but we cannot act blindly. We must consider every possibility, including the fact that Tom Riddle might have intended for you to see this."

"Of course hemeantfor me to see this! That's the only reason I saw it, Professor." Harry's tone was sharp, frustration bleeding through his otherwise steady voice. "You're thinking ofyourTom Riddle, the one who became Voldemort. This Tom isn't the same."

Dumbledore's expression remained impassive, though his eyes darkened slightly. "And yet, Harry, his essence is. Do not forget, no matter how different he may seem, this is still a fragment of the same man who—"

"I know who he is," Harry interrupted, his voice rising. "But you didn't hear him. He was panicking. He didn't just want me to see it—he wanted me to act."

Daphne shifted beside him, her gaze flicking between Harry and Dumbledore. She didn't speak, but her eyes lingered on Harry, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Dumbledore's gaze softened, but his voice remained firm. "Harry, I do not doubt your interpretation of what you heard. Nor do I doubt your intentions. But you must understand that Tom Riddle—any fragment of him—is a master of manipulation. Even a panicked warning can serve a calculated purpose."

Taking a deep breath, Harry tried to push back the surge of anger building in his chest. "You don't trust him," he said flatly.

"I do not," Dumbledore admitted easily. "Because I have seen what Tom Riddle becomes when trust is misplaced… Frankly, I am surprised at the depth of your trust in him."

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint snores of the portraits on the walls.

Harry's jaw tightened. "I'm not saying you're wrong to be cautious," he said finally, his voice low but determined. "But I trust him. And I won't let that trust be the reason we lose Arthur."

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, acknowledging Harry's words without agreeing. "And that is why we are acting, Harry. But remember—trust can be a double-edged sword. Do not let it blind you."

The tension in the room was nearly suffocating as they waited. Harry paced back and forth in front of Dumbledore's desk, his hands clenched at his sides, while Daphne sat stiffly on the edge of a nearby chair, her gaze darting occasionally to the empty portraits on the walls.

Suddenly, a shout rang out from one of the frames near the ceiling. The wizard Everard had reappeared, his face flushed and his short, black bangs damp with sweat. "Dumbledore!"

"What news?" Dumbledore asked immediately, his voice calm but commanding.

"I yelled until someone came running," Everard said, still panting slightly as he mopped his brow on the curtain behind him. "Told them I'd heard something moving downstairs. They weren't sure whether to believe me, but they went down to check—"

The office door opened suddenly, cutting him off. McGonagall entered, followed closely by Ron, Fred, and George, their faces etched with confusion and concern.

"What's going on?" Ron demanded, his voice rising as he stepped forward. "Why are we here? Where's Dad?"

Fred and George exchanged worried glances before George asked, "Professor, is he—"

"Be silent," Dumbledore said firmly, his commanding tone brooking no argument. He raised a hand to still them before turning his attention back to Everard. "Continue, Everard."

Everard, slightly flustered by the interruption, cleared his throat and continued. "They weren't sure whether to believe me, but they went down to check—no portraits in the corridor to watch from, you know. Anyway, they carried him up a few minutes ago. He doesn't look good—he's covered in blood."

Ron's face turned ashen, and Fred clenched his fists tightly, his knuckles white. George opened his mouth to speak, but Dumbledore raised a hand, silencing him before he could form a question.

Without speaking, Professor McGonagall flicked her wand toward the centre of the room, conjuring chairs for each of them. The Weasleys hesitated briefly before sitting, their faces pale and full of concern.

Dumbledore's expression tightened, though his composure remained intact. "And you are certain it was Arthur?"

"Red hair, glasses—it's him," Everard confirmed grimly. "I ran along to Elfrida Cragg's portrait to get a better view as they left—"

"And Dilys?" Dumbledore cut in, his sharp gaze shifting to her frame as she appeared, sinking into her armchair with a weary sigh.

"Yes, I saw him arrive," she said, her voice faint and edged with concern. "He passed under my portrait on the way to the emergency ward. They've taken him to St. Mungo's. He looks bad—very bad."

Ron let out a strangled noise, and Fred slammed a fist onto the arm of his chair. "We have to go," George said, his voice tight with suppressed fear. "We have to see him."

"You will," Dumbledore said, his tone gentler now. "But not yet. For now, I must ask you to go to Headquarters, where Sirius will take care of you and help arrange your visit."

Fred and George exchanged tense glances, but neither protested. Ron, however, surged to his feet, his fists clenched. "No! I want to go to him now— he needs us—"

"Mr. Weasley." Dumbledore's voice was firm but kind, his gaze steady as he met the younger Weasley's defiant expression. "I understand your urgency, but you must trust me. Right now, we need to ensure Arthur's safety and care without drawing undue attention. You can help him best by remaining safe yourselves."

McGonagall placed a hand on Ron's shoulder, as she turned back to Dumbledore. "And Molly?"

"That will be a job for Fawkes when he has finished keeping a lookout for anyone approaching," Dumbledore replied. "But I suspect she may already know. Her excellent clock…"

Dumbledore turned his attention to a portrait high on the wall, where a clever-looking wizard with a pointed beard sat in robes of green and silver. The man appeared to be sound asleep, his head tilted back against the frame.

"Phineas," Dumbledore called, his tone steady but firm.

The wizard in the portrait gave no response, his snores echoing faintly in the quiet room.

"Phineas," Dumbledore repeated, his voice sharp enough to make several of the other portraits stir.

When the wizard still didn't move, some of the neighbouring portraits began to shout. "Phineas! Phineas Nigellus!" cried a corpulent, red-nosed wizard, waving a fist. "You're being summoned!"

"PHINEAS!" bellowed a frail, white-haired witch, brandishing a knitting needle as though it were a wand.

With a theatrical jerk, the wizard's eyes flew open. "What? Who disturbs my rest?" he demanded, his voice reedy and irritable as he surveyed the room.

"Phineas, I need you to deliver a message," Dumbledore said, ignoring the wizard's protestations. "Arthur Weasley has been gravely injured. His family, along with Harry Potter, will soon be arriving at Grimmauld Place. Inform Sirius so he may prepare."

Phineas gave a long, exaggerated yawn, his eyes sliding toward Harry. "A message, is it? My duties have become so tiresome these days. And besides, who's to say Sirius hasn't already destroyed my portrait? He's done it to most of the family, you know."

"You know very well he has not," Dumbledore said, his calm unshaken. "Sirius understands the importance of your role. Now go."

"Gravely injured… Potter… Grimmauld Place…" Phineas muttered, his tone dripping with boredom as he recited the message. "Very well. But don't expect me to hurry."

He stepped sideways out of the frame and vanished, leaving the portrait's dark backdrop strangely hollow.

"Thank you, Phineas," Dumbledore said softly, though the wizard was long gone. Dumbledore's gaze shifted briefly to a yawning Daphne, who had remained quietly watching throughout the exchange.

"Miss Greengrass," Dumbledore said gently, drawing her attention. "You have already gone to considerable lengths tonight in assisting Mr. Potter. For that, I am grateful."

Daphne tilted her head slightly, meeting his gaze. "I'm not sure what else I can do, Professor," she said, her voice measured. "But I doubt I'll be much use where they're going."

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed, his tone calm but decisive. "Your involvement here has been commendable, but it is not necessary for you to accompany them. I will ensure you are returned to your dormitory safely and without detection."

Daphne nodded, though her posture remained guarded. "Understood, Professor."

Harry glanced at her, his brow furrowing slightly. "You sure?"

She gave him a small, almost imperceptible smile. "I'm fine, Harry. You've got enough people to keep you busy."

Before another word could be spoken, Phineas reappeared in his frame, his expression one of exaggerated boredom. "He says he'll be delighted," Phineas drawled, brushing a non-existent speck of dust from his green-and-silver robes. "Though why my great-great-grandson insists on housing such odd company is beyond me."

"Thank you, Phineas," Dumbledore said evenly, ignoring the jab. "You may return to your rest."

Phineas gave an exaggerated bow, his sharp eyes lingering on Harry for a moment as though assessing him, before disappearing back into his frame.

Dumbledore straightened, turning to Harry and the Weasleys. "It is time," he said, his voice firm. "Gather around the Portkey. Miss. Greengrass, if you could please remain seated."

Fred and George didn't wait for further instruction. They moved to the desk in unison, each grasping the kettle with grim determination. Ron followed a second later, his hand shaking slightly as he reached out, his jaw set tight.

Harry, however, lingered. His gaze flicked briefly to Daphne, who offered him a small, steadying nod, before he turned his attention to Dumbledore.

The older wizard stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Harry. There was no urgency in his expression—only a calm, quiet understanding, as though he could see the weight of the moment resting heavily on Harry's shoulders.

"Be careful," Dumbledore said softly, his voice just loud enough for Harry to hear.

Harry gave a short nod, his stomach churning with unease. He reached out and clasped the kettle, feeling its cold metal under his fingers as he stood shoulder to shoulder with the Weasleys.

"All ready?" Dumbledore asked, his tone firm again.

They nodded as one.

"Three," he began, raising his wand. "Two… one…"

Harry felt the familiar tug behind his navel, and the office blurred into a swirl of colour and rushing wind.

The rush of wind and light as the Portkey activated left the room eerily quiet. Daphne's eyes lingered on the now-empty space where Harry had stood, her arms tightening across her chest. The faint sound of the portraits shifting in their frames broke the stillness, accompanied by the occasional low murmur, but otherwise, the room felt oppressively empty.

Dumbledore's voice cut through the silence, calm and composed as always. "Thank you for your patience, Miss. Greengrass."

Daphne turned, finding his sharp blue eyes already on her. There was no condescension in his tone, but his words carried a weight that made her feel as though she were under scrutiny. "It seems tonight has been more eventful than most," he continued.

"You could say that," Daphne replied, careful to keep her voice even. She wasn't sure what Dumbledore expected from her, and she wasn't about to show her hand unnecessarily.

"You handled yourself admirably," Dumbledore said, his gaze softening slightly. "Few students would have shown such composure under the circumstances."

She resisted the urge to fidget, instead letting her arms fall to her sides. "It wasn't exactly optional," she said dryly. "Harry dragged me into it, and once you're in, it's not like there's much room to back out."

Dumbledore gave a faint smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Even so, you have shown remarkable resilience. I suspect Harry values your insight and support greatly."

Blinking at the unexpected praise, Daphne wasn't sure how to respond. She settled for a slight nod, her attention shifting as a burst of warm light flared near the door. Fawkes appeared in a swirl of golden flames, his wings outstretched before he settled gracefully onto his perch. The phoenix tilted his head, fixing her with his dark, unblinking gaze, inscrutable as ever.

"Will Harry and the others be alright?" she asked, her voice quieter than she intended.

"I have every confidence they will," Dumbledore replied. "But the times we live in are unpredictable. I must ask for your continued discretion regarding tonight's events. There are forces within the school, as you know, that would exploit even the smallest slip of information."

"Like Umbridge," Daphne said bluntly.

Dumbledore inclined his head, a glint of approval in his gaze. "Precisely."

She glanced at the closed door, then back at Dumbledore. "And what happens to me now?"

"You, Miss. Greengrass," Dumbledore said with a faint twinkle returning to his eyes, "will be returned to your dormitory, as promised. Fawkes will ensure your journey is swift and unnoticed."

The phoenix let out a low trill as if to confirm the statement, his feathers shimmering faintly in the dim light.

Daphne sighed, a mix of relief and frustration swirling in her chest. "Good. I've had enough excitement for one night."

"I should say so," Dumbledore agreed, his voice tinged with amusement. "Oh, and incidentally, I feel compelled to ask that you refrain from being caught in the grounds."

She froze for a moment, her composure slipping just enough for a faint flush to creep into her cheeks. She quickly masked it, tilting her head slightly. "I wasn't aware you kept tabs on all your students at night, Professor."

"Not all," Dumbledore replied with a chuckle, his blue eyes twinkling. "Only those who tend to find themselves in situations of note. The lake, after all, is particularly popular for students seeking solitude—or perhaps company—during these trying times."

Daphne couldn't help blushing, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Duly noted. I'll try to be more discreet next time."

His smile widened ever so slightly, though his gaze remained sharp. "Discretion, Miss. Greengrass, is an undervalued virtue. And one you have demonstrated well tonight."

She inclined her head in acknowledgment, choosing not to dwell on the implication. "If that's all, Professor, I'd appreciate that swift and unnoticed journey back to my dorm."

"Of course," Dumbledore said, gesturing toward Fawkes. The phoenix stretched his elegant neck and let out a soft trill before hopping gracefully onto the edge of Daphne's chair.

The heat radiating from the bird's plumage was comforting, and as Daphne met the phoenix's intelligent gaze, she felt an odd sense of reassurance.

"Goodnight, Miss. Greengrass," Dumbledore said, his tone warm but final.

Before she could respond, there was a flash of fire, and the office dissolved into swirling light and warmth as Fawkes carried her away.

As the world stopped spinning and Harry's feet hit the ground, he stumbled slightly, Ron steadying him with a hand on his arm. The gloomy, familiar kitchen of Grimmauld Place slowly came into focus, dimly lit by the fire crackling in the hearth.

The moment the Portkey left his grasp, Harry felt the shift—a faint ripple in the air, like invisible threads tightening around the house. The wards had closed, sealing the home against intrusion. Dumbledore's precautions, Harry thought, remembering how the headmaster had made them wait before leaving.

Fred and George exchanged glances but said nothing as they stepped further into the room, their footsteps muffled against the stone floor.

"Ah, there you are!" Sirius's voice rang out, warm and slightly hoarse, as he appeared in the doorway. His black hair was as unkempt as ever, and his robes hung loosely around his frame, but his grey eyes lit up at the sight of them. "Welcome to my humble—though still rather dreadful—abode."

Before Harry could respond, Sirius stepped further into the room, gently guiding someone along with him. Ginny, wrapped in a heavy maroon jumper far too big for her, blinked blearily at the group, her red hair falling messily over her shoulders.

"Ginny?" Ron's surprise was evident as he took a step forward. "What're you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," she muttered, rubbing her eyes before pulling her jumper tighter around her.

"She's been staying here," Sirius explained, patting her shoulder lightly before taking a chair at the kitchen table. "Molly's been splitting her time between the Burrow and here, but she decided Ginny should stay put for the time being."

Fred raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess—Mum's got you cleaning this place top to bottom, hasn't she?"

Ginny let out a long, exaggerated sigh, her head resting in one hand. "You have no idea."

"She's been a trooper," Sirius said with a grin, sitting across from her. "Between her and Kreacher, I daresay the house is looking better than it has in decades. Though Molly's taken cleaning to a whole new level. Even Kreacher's starting to complain."

"Starting to?" Ginny muttered, shooting Sirius a faint glare before looking at Ron. "So, what's going on? Why are you all here?"

Ron glanced at Harry, then at Fred and George. The tension in the room grew heavier, the warmth of Sirius's greeting fading as the reality of the night settled over them.

"Dad's been hurt," Ron said quietly, his voice tight. "And Dumbledore sent us here."

Ginny straightened in her chair, her sleepiness evaporating. "Is he okay?"

"He'll be fine," Harry said quickly, stepping forward. "We don't know more than that yet, but Dumbledore's on it, and they've got him at St. Mungo's. You'll see him soon."

Ginny's lips pressed into a thin line, her hands gripping the edge of the table. "Right," she said softly, though her voice carried a resolve that belied her small frame.

Fred and George exchanged a glance before Fred leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table. "All right, Potter," he said, his voice low but less accusatory. "Why are you here? How'd you end up in the middle of all this?"

Harry hesitated, glancing at Ron and Ginny. Ron looked at the floor, avoiding the question entirely, but Ginny's gaze stayed locked on Harry, her expression unreadable. The weight of their attention pressed on him, but he forced himself to stay steady.

"Dumbledore called me," he said simply, meeting Fred's eyes. "For something else."

Fred frowned, but it was George who leaned back, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Dumbledore doesn't call people in the middle of the night just for 'something else,'" he said, his tone unusually serious. "Why not tell us what's really going on?"

Harry's fists clenched under the table. "Because I—" He stopped himself, the words catching in his throat. He couldn't tell them about Tom. Not now. "Because I needed to be there," he said instead, his voice tight. "Dumbledore's got his reasons. He's not going to let anything happen to your dad."

Fred's mouth tightened, but he nodded reluctantly. George, however, studied Harry for a moment longer, his frown deepening. "Still feels like we're missing something," he said softly.

"Yes, you're missing the point," Ginny said suddenly, cutting through the tension. Her voice was sharper now, and her eyes darted between her brothers. "Dad's hurt, and sitting here grilling Harry isn't going to fix anything."

The twins looked at her, their expressions softening slightly, but neither replied.

"We'll see him when we can," Sirius said, breaking the tension as he leaned back in his chair, his tone steady but serious. "Right now, you're all here because it's the safest place for you. Tomorrow, you'll be taken to St. Mungo's, but only when Dumbledore says it's safe."

As Sirius summoned a tray of butterbeer bottles from the pantry with a casual flick of his wand, Harry sat down heavily at the kitchen table, the weight of the night pressing down on him. The Weasley twins settled across from him, their usual light-heartedness conspicuously absent, while Ron and Ginny took the seats closest to the fire.

He reached up, rubbing his forehead absently, but the motion only seemed to deepen the ache. Now that the adrenaline had faded, the sharp pain behind his scar had dulled into a throbbing pulse, as though the vision had carved a wound that refused to close.

It wasn't just his own exhaustion he felt—there was something else there, a strange weariness that wasn't his.

Tom.

Harry's breath caught as he realised it. The sharp edges of Tom's emotions—fear, urgency, even anger—had faded, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that Harry couldn't fully separate from his own.

"Here."

Sirius's voice cut through his thoughts, and Harry looked up to see his godfather setting a bottle of butterbeer in front of him. Sirius gave him a long, searching look before pulling out the chair beside him and sitting down.

"Drink," Sirius said quietly.

Harry nodded, wrapping his hands around the bottle. He wasn't thirsty, but the chill of the drink was grounding.

Across the table, Fred was staring down at his butterbeer, his expression unreadable. "So," he said finally, his voice low, "what happens now?"

Sirius leaned back in his chair, his face unusually serious. "We wait for Molly," he said simply. "She'll know more when she gets back from the hospital."

"And what if she doesn't?" George asked, his voice tighter than Fred's. "What if Dad—"

"He will be fine," Sirius said firmly, cutting him off.

Harry glanced at Ron, who was staring into the fire, his face pale and drawn. Guilt twisted in Harry's stomach. He knew he should say something—offer some kind of reassurance—but the words felt stuck in his throat.

Instead, his mind kept circling back to the vision. The sight of Arthur Weasley bleeding on the floor, the snake coiled and striking. The memory made his stomach churn.

If I'd been faster… If I'd done something more…

The pain behind his scar flared again, and he winced, earning a concerned look from Sirius.

"You all right?" Sirius asked softly.

Harry forced a nod, though the movement sent a sharp twinge through his head. "Yeah," he muttered. "Just tired."

Sirius didn't look convinced, but he let it drop, instead glancing toward the stairs as though expecting Molly to appear at any moment.

The quiet stretched on, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire and the occasional clink of a butterbeer bottle. Harry's thoughts swirled with guilt and exhaustion, and he could still feel Tom's presence, faint and frayed at the edges, like an echo of the desperation that had driven the vision.

Harry put his butterbeer bottle down a little harder than he meant to, the soft clink echoing in the quiet room. The liquid sloshed over the edge, pooling on the table, but no one seemed to notice.

The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating. Across the table, Ron was staring into the fire, his expression pale and distant, while Fred and George exchanged tense glances.

A sudden burst of flame in midair made everyone jump. The kitchen lit up briefly as a roll of parchment fell with a thud onto the table, accompanied by a single golden phoenix feather.

"Fawkes!" Sirius said at once, snatching up the parchment. He turned it over in his hands, his eyes narrowing. "It's not Dumbledore's writing. Must be from your mother," he said, passing it to George. "Here."

George ripped the letter open, his hands shaking slightly, and read aloud:

"Dad is still alive. I am setting out for St. Mungo's now. Stay where you are. I will send news as soon as I can. Mum."

The words hung in the air, each one heavier than the last.

"Still alive," George repeated, his voice low and hesitant. "But that makes it sound…"

He didn't need to finish. The unspoken implication hung in the room like a weight no one could shake.

Ron's gaze dropped to the table, his hands clenched into fists as he stared at the back of the letter as though it might provide answers. Fred snatched it from George, reading it himself before throwing it back down.

"We should all get some rest," Sirius said finally, his voice quieter now. "There's nothing else we can do tonight."

Fred and George scowled, their expressions identical, while Ron glared at Sirius as though the suggestion was an insult.

Still, the idea didn't seem so bad to Harry. He hadn't been to bed at all—not after spending the first part of the night outside with Daphne, then running straight into this nightmare. His head felt heavy, and the warmth of the butterbeer wasn't enough to mask the exhaustion tugging at his limbs.

He stood up, the chair scraping softly against the floor. All eyes turned to him, and Fred raised an accusatory eyebrow. "You're going?"

"I think I will," Harry said, his voice hoarse but steady.

"Harry…" Ron started, but Sirius raised a hand.

"Let him go," Ginny said quietly. "It's not his dad, he doesn't have to stay with us."

Fred and George didn't argue, though their jaws tightened, and Ron slumped back in his chair, looking frustrated but resigned.

Harry nodded slightly, then made his way to the stairs, the tension in the kitchen pressing on his back as he left.

The creak of the floorboards felt louder than usual as he reached his room. He sank onto the bed without bothering to take off his shoes, his thoughts swirling with exhaustion. The ache in his scar pulsed faintly, joined by the distant echo of Tom's weariness, still faintly tethered to his own. As he closed his eyes, the weight of the day finally dragged him into an uneasy sleep.

Harry stirred faintly at the sound of soft knocking, but it wasn't until a familiar voice called his name that he opened his eyes.

"Harry?" Tonks's voice was quiet but insistent, accompanied by a gentle nudge to his shoulder. "C'mon, sleepyhead. Time to join the living."

He blinked groggily, his mind slow to catch up with her words. The room was dim, the faint light of morning seeping in through the heavy curtains. Tonks was crouched by the side of his bed, her soft blue hair catching what little light there was.

"Wha—what time is it?" he mumbled, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

"Just gone eight," she said, giving him a lopsided grin. "We're getting ready to head to St. Mungo's. Thought you might want to come along."

Harry rubbed his eyes, the fog of sleep still clinging to him. "Mungos…" The events of the night before came rushing back, and he sat up straighter. "Arthur. Is he—"

"He's stable," Tonks said quickly, her tone reassuring. "Molly came back hours ago. Said he's still in rough shape but out of immediate danger."

Harry let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, relief mingling with the lingering weight of the night's tension.

Tonks straightened, offering him a hand. "We're all heading out soon. You don't have to come if you're still knackered, but I figured I'd give you the option."

Harry hesitated for a moment, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. "No, I'm coming," he said, running a hand through his hair.

"Atta boy," Tonks said with a grin, stepping back to give him room. "Everyone's downstairs getting dressed. Sirius already made tea, and I think he's about to start handing out breakfast orders."

Harry nodded, forcing himself to his feet. The dull ache behind his scar had faded to a faint throb, and the exhaustion that had weighed on him the night before felt more manageable now.

"I'll be down in a minute," he said.

"Take your time," Tonks said, heading for the door. She paused, her sharp eyes sweeping the room, and her expression shifted. "This was Bellatrix's room, wasn't it?"

Harry froze for a moment, then glanced around, as if seeing the space through her eyes for the first time since last night. "Yeah," he said finally. "Kreacher dumped me in here when I first got to the house. Figured it'd be easier to just… make it mine."

Tonks crossed her arms, her grin fading. "And you've been sleeping here? In her room?"

He shrugged, though his shoulders felt tight. "It's just a room," he said. "It's not like I left any of her stuff lying around."

Stepping further inside, her boots creaked softly on the floorboards as her eyes moved to the cracked mirror in the corner, then to the faded vanity. Before she finally settled on the empty spot where the old bed had been replaced. "It's more than just a room," she muttered, almost to herself. "This is where she grew up, where—" She cut herself off, shaking her head.

"She's not here now," Harry said quietly. "And I'm not about to let her memory dictate where I sleep. If anything, it's better this way. Makes it mine, not hers."

She turned back to him, her expression softening slightly. "You've got a point," she admitted, though her voice carried a note of reluctance. "But still… I'd feel better if you swapped rooms. Even the air in here feels wrong."

Harry gave a faint smile, though there wasn't much humour in it. "I'll be fine, Tonks. It's not like her ghost is hanging around or anything."

Her lips twitched, and she let out a soft chuckle. "Fair enough," she said, though she glanced around the room once more, her grin fading again. "But if Kreacher starts muttering about 'Mistress Bella,' promise me you'll reconsider."

"I promise," Harry said, though he didn't expect to keep it.

Tonks gave him a long look, then nodded. "All right, then. But you know you can always crash on the couch downstairs, yeah? Sirius'll probably throw himself a party if you take him up on it."

Harry snorted, and the tension in the room eased a fraction. "Noted."

"Good," she said, ruffling his hair on her way back to the door. "Don't take too long, though, or Sirius might start singing about bacon and eggs. Nobody needs that kind of horror this early in the morning."

The kitchen was alive with movement as Harry came downstairs. The Weasleys were bustling about, pulling on coats and scarves, the air filled with the faint aroma of Sirius's attempt at breakfast. Ginny handed Harry a cup of tea as he joined them, her expression unreadable but her voice quiet as she said, "Mum's waiting for us."

"Finally awake, are we?" Sirius said, leaning against the counter, his arms crossed and his expression dark, though his tone lacked its teasing quality. "Molly's just about to drag this lot out the door."

"I wouldn't drag them if they'd just hurry up," Molly said sharply, though her hands were gentle as she smoothed down Ginny's hair.

"Tell Arthur I said hi," Sirius said, his tone softening as he looked at Molly. "And wish him well."

"I will," Molly said, her expression tight but understanding. "We'll be back later, Sirius. Don't let Kreacher start anything."

Tonks appeared in the doorway, her hair a vibrant pink that seemed almost defiant against the gloom of Grimmauld Place. "Ready to go?" she asked, her gaze sweeping over the group before landing on Harry. "Morning again, sleepyhead. Are you good to go?"

Harry nodded, still shaking off the fog of sleep. "Yeah, I'm ready."

"Then let's move," Moody growled from behind her, his bowler hat tipped low as he gestured toward the door.

Sirius gave an exaggerated sigh, pushing himself off the counter. "Right, well, off you go then. And for Merlin's sake, keep an eye on him," he said, nodding toward Harry.

"Always do," Tonks said with a wink, ruffling Harry's hair as she passed him.

Sirius watched them leave, his expression tight with frustration. "Tell Arthur I'm rooting for him," he called after them, but the door had already swung shut.

Harry stuck close to Tonks, the chill of the morning air still clinging to him as the group moved briskly through the bustling streets and down into the Underground.

The hum of the train station filled the air, and he let himself be swept along with the group, his mind drifting as they waited for the train.

The moment they boarded, Harry sank into a seat beside Tonks, the warmth of the carriage and the rhythmic jostling of the train making his eyelids grow heavy. Before he knew it, his head had dropped onto Tonks's shoulder.

"Long night, huh?" she murmured, glancing down at him.

"Yeah," he mumbled, too tired to care about his head resting against her.

When they reached their stop, Tonks gently nudged him awake. "Oi, we're here," she said, giving him a teasing grin. "Up you get."

Harry blinked groggily, letting her pull him to his feet as they joined the others heading up the escalator. Moody clunked along at the rear, his magical eye spinning as it scanned the crowd.

"Here we are," Tonks said as they emerged onto a crowded street lined with shops glittering with Christmas displays. She led them toward a shabby, red-brick department store with large signs reading closed for refurbishment.

Tonks leaned close to the window, her breath fogging up the glass. "Wotcher… We're here to see Arthur Weasley."

Harry blinked as the ugly mannequin inside nodded, beckoning them forward. Tonks seized Ginny and Molly by the elbows and stepped through the glass, disappearing in an instant.

Fred, George, and Ron followed quickly, while Harry hesitated for a moment, glancing around at the busy street. No one seemed to notice anything unusual.

"Move it," Moody growled, giving Harry a light shove.

Steeling himself, Harry stepped through the glass, feeling the familiar sensation of cool water cascading over him before emerging into the bustling reception area of St. Mungo's.

Harry barely glanced at the odd collection of patients—witches and wizards suffering from bizarre ailments or strange magical mishaps. A warlock in the corner let out a resounding clang every time he moved, his head vibrating so violently that he had to clutch his ears to steady it. Harry's gaze flicked to the lime-green robes of the Healers, their crossed wand-and-bone emblem embroidered prominently on their chests, before moving on.

He followed the group to the front desk, where a witch was dealing briskly with a long line of visitors.

"I'm here to see Broderick Bode!" wheezed a stooped old wizard with a hearing trumpet.

"Ward forty-nine, but I'm afraid you're wasting your time," the witch replied dismissively. "He's completely addled, you know, still thinks he's a teapot. Next!"

Mrs. Weasley stepped forward, her voice clipped but polite. "My husband, Arthur Weasley, was supposed to be moved to a different ward this morning. Could you tell us where he is?"

The witch scanned a long list in front of her. "Arthur Weasley? First floor, second door on the right, Dai Llewellyn Ward."

"Thank you," said Mrs. Weasley. "Come on, you lot."

They filed through the double doors and down a narrow corridor, lined with portraits of stern-looking Healers and illuminated by floating crystal bubbles full of candlelight. Harry barely registered the occasional burst of foul-smelling gas or distant wails from behind closed doors as they climbed a flight of stairs to the "Creature-Induced Injuries" corridor.

"Dangerous Dai Llewellyn Ward: Serious Bites," read the sign on the second door to the right. Below it was a card in a brass holder identifying the Healers in charge.

"We'll wait out here," said Tonks, her hand brushing Harry's arm lightly as she stepped back. "Arthur won't want too many visitors at once."

Mad-Eye grunted his approval and took up a position against the wall, his magical eye whirring as it scanned the corridor. Harry hesitated, but before he could step back, Mrs. Weasley's hand landed firmly on his shoulder.

"Don't be silly, Harry," she said, steering him forward. "Arthur wants to thank you."

Harry had no chance to protest as she ushered him through the door. The ward was small and dimly lit, its single window set high in the wall. Crystal bubbles hung from the ceiling, casting soft light over the room.

Mr. Weasley's bed was at the far end, propped up on pillows with a copy of the Daily Prophet spread across his lap. A weak ray of sunlight slanted onto the bed, highlighting his pale but smiling face.

"Hello!" he called, setting the newspaper aside and beaming as they approached. "Bill just left, Molly—had to get back to work, but he says he'll drop in on you later."

"How are you, Arthur?" Mrs. Weasley asked, bending to kiss his cheek and scanning his face anxiously.

"I feel absolutely fine," Mr. Weasley said brightly, holding out his good arm to pull Ginny into a hug. "If they could only take these bandages off, I'd be fit to go home."

"Why can't they take them off, Dad?" asked Fred, eyeing the tightly wrapped bandages around his father's torso.

"Well," Mr. Weasley said cheerfully, "I start bleeding like mad every time they try. Seems there's some sort of unusual venom in that snake's fangs that keeps the wounds open. They're working on an antidote, though. In the meantime, I just have to keep taking a Blood-Replenishing Potion every hour."

"So, you going to tell us what happened, Dad?" asked Fred, dragging his chair closer to the bed and plopping into it with a thud.

Arthur gave a wry smile, leaning back against his pillows. "Well, it's fairly straightforward. I'd had a long day, dozed off on duty, and got ambushed. Next thing I know, I'm in here."

"What were you on duty for?" George asked, his tone light but his eyes sharp.

Arthur hesitated, glancing briefly at Molly, whose expression had tightened. "Just keeping an eye on something the Ministry thought important," he said lightly, though his tone carried an air of finality. "Nothing worth losing sleep over."

Fred and George exchanged a glance, but before either could press further, Fred gestured toward the discarded Daily Prophet. "It's not in the paper, is it?"

"Of course not," Arthur said, his smile slipping into something faintly bitter. "The Ministry wouldn't want everyone to know a dirty great serpent got—"

"Arthur!" Molly interrupted sharply, her voice low but warning.

"—got… er— me," Arthur finished hastily, though his sudden sheepishness did little to mask the meaning behind his words.

He quickly snatched up the Prophet again. "I was just reading about Willy Widdershins' arrest before you arrived. You know he was behind those regurgitating toilets last summer? One of his jinxes backfired—blew the whole lot up! When they found him, he was unconscious in the wreckage, covered from head to toe in—"

"When you say 'on duty,'" Fred interrupted in a low voice, leaning closer, "what were you doing?"

Arthur's smile tightened, and he set the newspaper down deliberately. "Fred," he said gently but firmly, "I'm fine. That's what matters."

"You were guarding it, weren't you?" George said suddenly, his voice equally quiet. "The weapon? The thing You-Know-Who's after?"

"George, enough!" Molly snapped, her cheeks flushing.

Arthur held up a hand, his calm demeanour diffusing the tension. "The less we discuss such things here, the better," he said firmly, his gaze flicking meaningfully to the ward door.

The twins subsided reluctantly, though their expressions remained tense. Harry watched the exchange silently, his own thoughts swirling. He'd seen Arthur bleeding, vulnerable, and now the man seemed determined to brush it all off as if it hadn't nearly cost him his life.

"Now," Arthur said, brightening as he reached for his tea, "how about we stop fussing over me and catch me up on everything I've missed? Surely Fred and George have done something worth a good story since the Summer."

"Maybe another time," Molly clapped her hands briskly, cutting through the chatter. "All right, all of you, let's not crowd your father. You've seen he's fine—now give him some peace. You can regale him with your chaos another time."

Fred groaned but rose from his chair, ruffling George's hair on the way. "Fine, Mum, but don't expect us to stay quiet in the hall for long."

"Quiet's not really in your vocabulary, is it?" Ginny muttered, following her brothers toward the door.

As the others began filing out, Arthur's voice rose over the shuffle. "Harry—could you stay a moment?"

Harry paused, exchanging a glance with Molly, who gave a small nod before ushering the rest of the group out of the ward.

Arthur patted the chair Fred had vacated, his expression softening as Harry moved closer. "Sit down, Harry. Just for a minute."

Harry sat, his posture stiff as he waited for Arthur to speak.

"I wanted to thank you," Arthur said simply, his voice quiet but steady. "For… Well, whatever it was that brought you to Dumbledore so quickly. Molly told me you were part of the reason they found me in time."

Harry felt his face heat. "It wasn't really me," he said quickly. "I mean, I saw it. A vision of the attack. But it's not like I did anything special."

"You did," Arthur said firmly. "You acted. You could have ignored it, doubted yourself, but you didn't. And that's what made the difference."

Harry looked down at his hands, his throat tightening as he struggled to find a response.

Arthur reached out, his good hand landing gently on Harry's arm. "I know you're carrying a lot, Harry. But let me say this—you're not alone. And you don't have to shoulder everything by yourself."

Harry nodded mutely, not trusting himself to speak.

"Go on, then," Arthur said, his tone lightening as he leaned back against his pillows. "My children are probably scheming something outside. Don't let them rope you into anything too dangerous."

Harry managed a faint smile as he stood, the weight of Arthur's words following him as he stepped out into the corridor.

As Harry stepped out into the corridor, the sound of Fred's muttered, "Quick, hide it," reached his ears. He glanced over just in time to see Fred hastily coiling an Extendable Ear and shoving it into his pocket. George stood beside him, his expression carefully blank, which on him was as good as a neon sign reading guilty.

Harry's brows furrowed. "What were you—?"

Fred cut him off, grinning as though nothing had happened. "Just doing what we do best, mate. Quality assurance. Can't sell products that don't work, can we?"

George nudged his brother and gave Harry a tight smile. "Yeah, sure. And by the way… thanks."

"For what?" Harry asked, thrown by the sudden shift in tone.

Fred shrugged, his grin faltering slightly. "For being there for Dad. We heard…" He trailed off, glancing at George, who gave him a slight nod. "We heard enough."

Harry's stomach twisted, realising exactly what they meant. "You were eavesdropping."

"Not on purpose," George said quickly. "We thought they'd be talking about the attack—Ministry stuff, maybe. We didn't know you'd…"

"Don't worry," Fred added, his usual bravado replaced with something quieter. "We're not going to say anything. But…" He hesitated, then clapped Harry on the shoulder. "You're a better bloke than we've given you credit for, Potter."

Harry blinked, unsure how to respond as George added, "You didn't have to keep it quiet… if you thought we'd treat you differently, or anything."

The next morning, Grimmauld Place was alive with activity as everyone set about transforming the dreary house for Christmas. Sirius was in an unusually cheerful mood, his booming voice carrying through the halls as he sang carols off-key.

"Honestly," Tonks muttered to Harry as she levitated a string of enchanted baubles up to a particularly bare corner of the drawing room, "if I didn't know better, I'd say he's just happy to be defying the gloom of this place. Or maybe he's trying to scare the doxies out of hiding with that singing."

Harry grinned faintly but didn't respond, focusing on hanging garlands along the edge of a bookshelf. The scent of pine and something faintly spicy—maybe cinnamon—had begun to overpower the usual musty odour of the house, and for the first time since arriving, the space felt almost warm.

"Oi, Harry!" Fred's voice echoed from the doorway as he and George bustled in, both carrying armfuls of glittering tinsel. "You've been too quiet. That's not allowed during holiday prep."

"Especially not when we've got these!" George added, holding up a fistful of enchanted crackers. He tossed one to Harry, who caught it instinctively.

"What are these?" Harry asked warily, eyeing the cracker as though it might explode in his hands.

"Experimental Christmas line," Fred said, grinning. "Pull it and see!"

Harry hesitated but gave the cracker a tentative tug. With a loud bang, it burst apart, releasing a cloud of sparkling snowflakes that fell gently around him. A miniature broomstick whizzed out, circling his head once before settling neatly in his hand.

"Not bad," Harry admitted, holding up the tiny broomstick.

"Not bad?" Fred said, feigning outrage. "That's brilliant, Potter."

"Wait until you see the ones that sing," George added ominously.

Before Harry could respond, Sirius entered the room, dragging a large box behind him. "Right, who's ready to help me with the tree?" he called, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

"I don't think we have a choice," Ginny said dryly from where she was arranging candles on the mantel.

Sirius grinned and pointed to the corner where a large, slightly crooked pine tree stood. "Then let's get to it. We've got to make this place look halfway decent for Christmas dinner, don't we?"

As the group fell into a rhythm of decorating, laughter and good-natured teasing filled the air, driving away the house's usual shadows. For the first time in a long while, Grimmauld Place felt almost like a home.

Annoyingly, the document uploader has started removing the formatting when I copy it over, so I've lost some of the italics I like to use in speech. But I've done my best to put it all back.

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