The last few weeks of the year passed in a blur of Quidditch, exams, and mischief. Gryffindor had barely lost the Quidditch Cup to Slytherin, and it stung more than any of them wanted to admit. Brooklyn had played one of her best games ever against Ravenclaw, but even her scoring streak hadn't been enough to close the gap.

"Next year," Angelina had promised as they left the pitch, her jaw set with determination.

Then, just when things seemed to be winding down, the real chaos hit.

Brooklyn was groggily eating breakfast one morning when a hushed, urgent murmur started rippling through the Great Hall. She looked up just in time to see a group of Ravenclaws rushing in, whispering furiously to each other. A few moments later, a knot of Hufflepuffs did the same.

Lee Jordan slid onto the bench across from her, looking unusually serious. "You lot heard yet?"

"Heard what?" Fred asked, perking up.

Lee leaned in, lowering his voice. "Harry's in the hospital wing. Something happened in the dungeons last night. Something big."

Brooklyn's stomach twisted. "What do you mean, something?"

Lee shrugged. "No one knows for sure. All I've heard is that it involved Quirrell."

The twins immediately exchanged a look.

"Right," George said, pushing up from the table. "We need to visit him."

"Absolutely," Fred agreed, already grinning. "And we need to bring a gift."

Brooklyn raised a brow. "What kind of gift?"

The twins' grins widened.

It took some sneaking around—okay, a lot of sneaking around—but by that afternoon, they had procured a very special present for Harry.

A toilet seat.

They'd all signed it—Brooklyn, Angelina, Alicia, Oliver, even Lee—before making their way to the hospital wing, where Ron and Hermione were already visiting Harry.

Unfortunately, before they could properly deliver their masterpiece, Madam Pomfrey appeared out of nowhere, hands on her hips.

"Oh, no," she said sharply, snatching the seat from Fred. "You will not be giving Mr. Potter a toilet seat as a get-well gift."

Fred clutched his chest dramatically. "Madam Pomfrey, you wound me. This is a thoughtful gift."

"Out," she ordered, shooing them toward the door.

They had no choice but to retreat, though Fred and George both loudly declared they'd find a way to get it to Harry eventually.

As they left the hospital wing, Brooklyn sighed, shaking her head. "Only you two would think a toilet seat was a suitable present."

"Oi," George said, grinning. "If you were stuck in a hospital bed after fighting a professor, you'd appreciate one too."

Brooklyn just laughed. The year had been a whirlwind, full of ups and downs, but somehow, despite everything, she knew she wouldn't have traded it for anything.

The Great Hall was draped in Slytherin green and silver, their banners hanging proudly from the enchanted ceiling. The Slytherin table was practically glowing with smug satisfaction, Malfoy looking insufferably pleased with himself. Gryffindor, on the other hand, sat quietly, some students already resigned to another year of crushing defeat.

Brooklyn wasn't particularly surprised. After all, Slytherin had dominated in both Quidditch and academics this year, not to mention their sheer ability to not lose as many house points as Gryffindor. The twins alone had likely cost them the cup on multiple occasions.

Fred, seated next to her, sighed dramatically. "Well, another year, another crushing defeat. At least we have summer to recover."

"We almost had it," George grumbled, stabbing his roast potato with more force than necessary.

Brooklyn rolled her eyes. "You're acting like someone just murdered the team owl."

"Oh, this is worse than that," Fred said, slumping onto the table.

At the front of the hall, Dumbledore rose to his feet, and the chatter died down.

"Another year gone," he said, his blue eyes twinkling as he gazed around the room. "And as always, before we part ways, we must acknowledge the achievements of our students. The House Cup must be awarded."

A polite round of applause went up as he smiled warmly at the Slytherin table.

"In first place, with 472 points—Slytherin."

Loud cheers erupted from their table, and Malfoy shot the Gryffindors a smug look.

Dumbledore held up a hand, and the hall quieted once more.

"However… recent events must be taken into account."

Brooklyn frowned. Recent events?

Dumbledore clasped his hands behind his back. "I have a few last-minute points to award."

A murmur went through the hall.

"First, to Miss Hermione Granger—for the cool use of intellect when others would have panicked—fifty points."

Gryffindor erupted into cheers, and Hermione turned bright red, clearly flustered by the attention.

Brooklyn sat up straighter, exchanging a glance with the twins.

Dumbledore continued. "To Mr. Ronald Weasley—for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years—fifty points."

Another round of cheers burst from the Gryffindor table.

"What is happening?" George hissed.

"To Mr. Harry Potter," Dumbledore went on, his eyes twinkling, "for pure nerve and outstanding courage—I award Gryffindor sixty points."

The Gryffindor table erupted. Brooklyn shot a look at Harry, who was still looking a little pale from his hospital stay. He gave a small, sheepish smile as the table cheered around him.

"Holy Merlin," Fred breathed. "We're tied with Slytherin."

Brooklyn's heart pounded.

Dumbledore raised a hand again, and the room quieted, though the anticipation was nearly suffocating.

"There are all kinds of bravery," Dumbledore said, "and it takes a great deal to stand up to our enemies. But just as much to stand up to our friends." His gaze flickered to the Gryffindor table. "To Mr. Neville Longbottom—I award ten points."

For a moment, there was silence. Then—

The Gryffindor table exploded.

Brooklyn jumped up with everyone else, cheering so loud her throat already ached. Across the hall, the Slytherin table looked like they'd collectively swallowed a lemon.

Dumbledore clapped his hands, and the banners around the Great Hall suddenly shifted—Slytherin green melted away into brilliant Gryffindor scarlet and gold.

Fred lifted Brooklyn off the ground, spinning her in excitement. "WE WON!"

"THIS IS MADNESS!" Lee shouted, shaking George by the shoulders.

At the Slytherin table, Malfoy looked absolutely livid, while Snape was doing his best to appear indifferent, though the twitch in his jaw gave him away.

"Everyone calm down," McGonagall called, though even she looked immensely pleased.

As the feast continued, Brooklyn found herself grinning like an idiot. They had actually done it.

The year had been brutal, but in this moment, as she sat with her best friends, the Great Hall glowing in Gryffindor gold, she knew that it had been worth it.

Brooklyn had never expected the process to be quick. She wasn't naïve. But as the weeks of summer dragged on, and the Ministry kept delaying hearings and requesting more evidence, she realized just how painfully slow the system could be. The Weasleys were fighting for her, doing everything they could, but the legal red tape kept stalling them at every turn.

And in the meantime, she was stuck.

Her grandparents were always cruel, but this summer, they were angry. Furious about the custody case, furious about her friendship with the Weasleys, furious that she wasn't obedient. And they took it out on her.

It didn't matter what she did—everything was wrong. If she spoke too much, she was being disrespectful. If she was quiet, she was sulking. If she ate too slowly, she was ungrateful. If she finished too fast, she was greedy. And if she ever so much as mentioned Hogwarts, Quidditch, or the Weasleys, her grandfather would take off his belt, and she'd be lucky if it ended there.

Her grandmother wasn't much better. She didn't use her hands, but she used her wand, and Brooklyn learned quickly that Cruciatus was her favorite punishment. It didn't happen every day, but when it did, it left Brooklyn shaking for hours, sometimes longer.

The only thing keeping her sane was her siblings.

Ryan, Mia, and Emily weren't hurt the way she was. Emily had confirmed it in whispers late at night when Brooklyn had managed to sneak into her room for a few stolen moments of comfort.

"They don't touch us," Emily said, her expression firm. "Only you."

Brooklyn had almost cried with relief at that. She could take it. She had been taking it for years. But she couldn't have stood the thought of them hurting Ryan or Mia.

Emily did her best to keep things stable. She watched over the younger two, made sure they stayed quiet and out of trouble. Brooklyn helped when she could, but some days, she barely had the strength to move.

Still, she kept going.

When the Weasleys managed to send letters through the Ministry-approved channels, she read them over and over, tracing their words with her fingers. Molly and Arthur assured her they were still fighting. Fred and George's letters were full of jokes, clearly trying to cheer her up. Ginny wrote that she missed her, and Charlie—Charlie wrote that he would not stop until she was out of there.

But the weeks dragged on. The bruises piled up. The cuts took longer to heal. The pain became normal.

Brooklyn counted the days.

And all she could do was wait.

Brooklyn had been curled up on her bed, reading by the dim light filtering through her window, when she heard the heavy footsteps outside her door.

She barely had time to sit up before it slammed open, crashing against the wall with a violent bang.

Her grandfather stood there, his face twisted in rage.

Brooklyn didn't know what she had done. She never did. It didn't matter.

"You ungrateful little bitch," he snarled, crossing the room in two strides. She flinched back, but there was nowhere to go. His hand lashed out, striking her across the face so hard that her head snapped to the side.

Before she could react, he grabbed her by the arm and yanked her off the bed, throwing her to the floor like she was nothing. Pain exploded through her shoulder as she landed, but she barely had time to register it before the first kick landed.

She curled in on herself, trying to protect her ribs, but it didn't matter. He kicked again. And again. And again.

Brooklyn didn't scream. She had learned a long time ago that it only made things worse.

By the time he grabbed his belt, her ears were ringing, and her vision was swimming.

The leather cracked against her skin, again and again, leaving burning stripes of agony in its wake. She barely had the strength to lift her arms and shield her face.

Her breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. The room swayed around her. Her hands were wet—blood. She could feel it soaking into the floor beneath her.

She didn't know how long it lasted. Time didn't mean anything in moments like this.

At some point, he must have decided she had had enough. He spat something at her, something cruel, but Brooklyn wasn't really listening. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling, pain pulsing through every part of her body.

She felt… cold.

Dizzy.

The nausea rolled over her in waves. She tried to move, but her body didn't respond.

Then—

Voices.

At first, she thought she was imagining them. She had to be. No one ever came here.

But the voices got louder. The sound of footsteps. A door slamming open.

Then—shouting. Angry, furious shouting.

She tried to turn her head, but everything was too heavy.

And then there were hands—gentle hands, warm hands. Someone knelt in front of her, blocking out the harsh light.

Red hair.

She forced her eyes to focus.

"Brooklyn," a voice said. It was familiar. It was safe.

Brooklyn's world flickered in and out of focus, pain wrapping around her like a heavy fog. She could hear voices—low and angry—but they sounded distant, as if she were underwater.

A hand touched her face, gentle, careful. She flinched on instinct, but the voice that followed was warm.

"Brooklyn, love, it's me," Arthur Weasley murmured.

Her eyelids fluttered, and through the haze, she made out his face. Concern lined every inch of it, his kind eyes filled with horror as he took in the state she was in.

Behind him, voices boomed with fury.

"You call yourself a wizard?" Kingsley Shacklebolt's deep voice was full of disgust. "She's a child."

"You won't be touching her again," growled another voice—Mad-Eye Moody. There was a sound of movement, and then a low, pained grunt. Brooklyn couldn't see what was happening, but she could only imagine what Moody had done to her grandfather.

Arthur, however, ignored all of it. His focus was solely on her.

He pulled out his wand, muttering spells under his breath. A warm sensation spread over her body as the worst of the pain dulled—her broken ribs knitting together, the deep gashes closing. It wasn't perfect, but she could breathe again without wanting to cry.

"There we go," Arthur said softly. "We'll get you fixed up properly at home, sweetheart."

Home.

Her tired brain barely had the strength to process the word.

Behind him, Kingsley gave his wand a flick, and Brooklyn's belongings flew into her trunk. He caught it effortlessly with one hand, then grabbed her broomstick with the other.

Arthur slid his arms beneath her, carefully lifting her from the blood-stained floor. Brooklyn was too exhausted to protest. She felt weightless in his arms, her head lolling against his chest.

She barely had time to register the spinning pull of apparition before the air shifted.

It smelled different.

Warm. Familiar.

And then, through the exhaustion, the realization hit her.

They were at the Burrow.

She was home.

She parted her lips, but no sound came out.

Then the world tilted, and everything went black.