Chapter Text
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
BLINDSIDED
Hogsmeade weekends were meant for butterbeer, bad ideas, and sugary regret. We were ticking all the boxes.
Harry, Hermione, and I had wandered the whole village already—Zonko’s for a restock of chaos, Honeydukes for enough sugar to kill a troll, and even a short stop at Scrivenshaft’s so Hermione could “just check” if they had a new line of enchanted highlighters. They didn’t. What a shame.
Now we were nestled into a booth at the Three Broomsticks, a little squashed and very warm. The pub was packed with Hogwarts students and thick with the smell of cinnamon, ale, and wet cloaks. I was halfway through my second butterbeer, cheeks flushed and nose slightly runny from the chill outside, when I felt nature’s call tap insistently at the door.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, sliding out of the booth and weaving my way toward the toilets.
The loo was cramped and smelled vaguely of pine and regret. I took care of business quickly, yawning as I made my way to the sink. I reached for the soap and turned on the tap.
And then—
Something shifted.
A rush of warmth slid over me like sunlight through water. It wrapped around my chest and emptied my mind in one perfect breath. Every anxious edge inside me dulled, every thought melted away like mist in the morning. My hands still moved under the stream of water, but it felt like I was floating just above them.
I blinked slowly, and someone stepped out from a stall behind me. A man. Wizard robes. Wand out. Aiming it at me.
But I didn’t care.
Why would I? Everything was fine. More than fine. I could’ve floated away and never come back.
“Take the newspaper,” a voice said—not spoken aloud, but inside my head. Deep and calm and absolutely right.
My gaze drifted to the folded paper next to the sink.
I picked it up without thinking.
“Go back to your friends and give Potter the newspaper... go back to your friends...”
I hummed softly—just a little tune, not even a real one. The world had a strange echo to it now, as if I were walking through a dream.
I turned and drifted out of the toilet.
The noise in the main room barely registered. There were voices and clinks of glasses and laughter, but it all sounded far away. Fuzzy. Like it couldn’t reach me.
I glided through the crowd. Someone jostled my shoulder—I didn’t react. I just smiled faintly and kept walking.
There they were, still at our table. Hermione was laughing at something Harry said, both of them holding mugs of butterbeer, cheeks pink from the cold.
“...go back to your friends and give Potter the newspaper...”
I reached the table and stopped next to Harry.
“Here,” I said—or thought I said. I wasn’t entirely sure if the sound had come out.
I held the newspaper out.
Harry looked up, brow furrowed.
“What’s this?”
He reached for it.
The second his hand touched the paper—
Something jerked in my gut.
My feet left the floor. Wind screamed past my ears.
And then—
Color. Swirling, rushing, spinning.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think.
The pub was gone.
Everything was gone.
I felt my feet hit the ground again, grass cool beneath my soles. Harry tumbled beside me, and I looked at him curiously, wondering why he was breathing so hard, scrambling for his wand like we were under attack.
Silly boy.
I felt wonderful. Light. Like someone had taken the mess of my brain and neatly folded it into a warm pile of blankets. Nothing mattered. Nothing hurt. I floated.
A pop echoed behind us.
"Take his wand… take his wand…"
Oh, of course. That made sense.
I plucked Harry’s wand from his grip. He said something—his mouth moved, but the sound was distant, like I was underwater. I smiled vaguely and held the wand in my hand. Two wands. That was funny.
The stranger from the toilet was here. I knew it before I even turned. He lifted his wand, and as I watched, his face—shifted. Moved like smoke and melted into something else. Familiar, maybe. But fuzzy. Unimportant.
Harry shouted something sharp and ragged.
He sounded so upset. That silly little man. Why would he be?
Then he dropped to his knees with a cry, clutching his head like it was on fire. I felt a slight nudge of unease at the sight, like something brushing the edge of a dream.
“Pull him to his feet.”
Yes. That would be better. Harry shouldn’t be on the ground. I took his arm and hauled him upright.
“Drag him to the headstone…”
The one behind us. Yes, that one. I didn’t know how I knew, I just knew. I dragged Harry toward it gently—he struggled, or maybe he didn’t. I wasn’t sure. My body moved easily, without resistance. The stranger was muttering something behind us, doing something with his wand.
When Harry was flat against the stone, cords coiled around him like angry vines, tight from his neck down to his ankles.
I frowned. That didn’t seem very nice.
Harry didn’t like it, I could tell. His face was twisted, and his eyes were glassy and wide with panic. I reached out a hand to untie one of the cords—
—but my hand was so heavy.
Later, I told myself. It could wait. What harm could it do?
“Check the tightness of the knots… check the knots…”
I knelt and did just that, tugging them a little, not too much. Snug. Not painful. I didn’t want to hurt him. I never wanted to hurt him.
“Ron…” I thought I heard him whisper, low and broken.
Or maybe I imagined it. I shrugged and checked the final knot.
"Gag him… gag him…"
Oh, right.
There was a soft black strip on the next tombstone. I lifted it—it felt like silk, like something from a fancy tailor’s box. Harry would like this. It was nice.
He tried to yell when I approached. I cradled his face and pushed the cloth gently into his mouth.
He choked. His eyes screamed.
That wasn’t right.
I didn’t like it. I started to reach again, to pull it out—
—but my hand fell back down, useless and slow.
He’ll be okay. He always is.
A sound made me look. Something slithered, low and wide and smooth.
A snake. The cutest snake I’d ever seen. Huge and graceful, curling through the grass like a ribbon made of oil. A girl, I thought. How did I know that?
She passed by me like a queen, and I wanted to touch her. She was perfect.
“Push the cauldron near the tombstone… push the cauldron…”
I turned and saw the great stone cauldron behind me. I pushed—it barely weighed anything. It rolled easily to the foot of the grave.
I smiled, proud of myself. I was strong. Helpful.
Harry’s eyes were red now. I gave him a little smile, too. Everything was fine.
“Start the fire…”
Easy. I drew my wand and lit a flame beneath the cauldron. The liquid inside heated fast, bubbling like soup on a stove. I liked the sound. I did that. Me.
The stranger returned. He had something in his arms. A bundle. A baby?
I wanted to coo, but—
“Step back.”
I stepped back.
The stranger did things. Complicated things. Waved his wand and said words. I didn’t understand them. It all looked boring, like paperwork or taxes. But then—
The steam erupted. Blinding white. It billowed out in thick clouds, hissing and swirling.
And then…
A man rose from the cauldron.
Tall. Pale. Empty as bone.
He said something, and I didn’t hear it.
“Robe him…”
Of course.
The black robes were nearby. I picked them up and draped them over his shoulders. They looked good on him. He laughed. I smiled. He was happy. I was happy too.
He turned, and the stranger—he was screaming.
His hand. Gone.
Or… had it ever been there?
Blood pooled in the grass. But the stranger didn’t look sad. He looked… proud.
Weird people.
The man spoke a lot. His voice went up and down like a storm rolling across the ocean. I couldn’t understand him. It was like trying to hear a speech from the bottom of a well.
Then others began to arrive. Whirls of robes. Faces behind masks. They knelt before the man. One by one.
I wondered if I should kneel too. But the voice was silent now, and I didn’t feel like doing anything unless it told me to. So I just stood there and watched.
One of the masked ones kissed the robes. Another one screamed when the man cursed him. He writhed.
I should’ve cared. But I didn’t.
Why didn’t I?
Then the man gave the stranger a new hand, shiny, silver, sharp-looking. The stranger wept and kissed the hem of the robe. Gratitude or madness, I couldn’t tell. Probably both.
And then—then the masks fell away.
Their faces.
Misty. Shifting.
Until one wasn’t. One was clear.
Sharp cheekbones. Cold, beautiful eyes. Black hair like ink in water.
Snape.
My heart flared so fast I nearly stumbled.
He was here. My Snape. He’d come.
He would protect me. I was safe.
Then—
A scream.
Not just any scream.
Harry.
I turned my head.
He was convulsing, screaming through the gag, legs thrashing, ropes cutting into his skin. His eyes met mine.
And something inside me—
Snapped.
Like a whipcrack through my skull.
The warmth vanished. The fog shredded.
I gasped like I’d been underwater for hours, stumbling back as cold horror crashed over me.
That man… that thing rising from the cauldron—Voldemort.
The stranger with the twisted smile—Crouch Junior.
The masks—the masked ones —Death Eaters.
And Harry was in pain.
And I—
I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t breathe.
I stood frozen, every inch of me screaming to do something, anything—but I just stared. Stared and stared and stared.
Voldemort’s voice was clear now, as if the fog in my ears had finally cleared.
“You see, I think, how foolish it was to suppose that this boy could ever have been stronger than me. But I want there to be no mistake in anybody’s mind. Harry Potter survived by a lucky chance. And I am now going to prove my power by killing him, here and now, in front of you all—when there is no Dumbledore to help him, and no mother to die for him.”
He paused. Then added, almost casually,
“I will give him his chance. He will be allowed to fight, and you will be left in no doubt which of us is the stronger.”
His red eyes gleamed.
“But first… Crucio .”
Pain.
Pain like I never imagined.
It’s me, not Harry—it’s me.
I fell to the ground with a scream so loud I felt my throat tear. My bones twisted in fire, my head felt like it was splitting down the middle, my eyes—they were going to explode, I knew they were.
I couldn’t do anything but scream. And scream. I wanted to stop, I wanted to be silent, I wanted to die —but I couldn’t.
Then—suddenly—it ended.
I choked on my breath, sucking air like it might save me.
But it didn’t last.
“Crucio. ”
The pain slammed back into me, even worse. My body jerked and seized uncontrollably. I couldn’t hear anything but my shrieks. I smashed the side of my head against the ground once, twice—hoping, begging it would knock me out, and end this.
Then—again—it stopped.
I was sobbing. Trembling. I couldn’t move. I was a heap of pain and breath and terror. Voices rose around me like waves crashing on a shore. I wanted to see, to listen, to do something —
—but my limbs wouldn’t respond. My body was unstrung, broken.
“I said, bow,” Voldemort commanded.
There was laughter. It feels like poison in the air.
I managed to roll onto my back. My head flopped sideways.
Harry.
Harry was screaming. He was down, then scrambling up. His legs barely held him.
And behind him—
Snape.
Still. Blank-faced. His eyes stared into nothing.
Then, suddenly—barely—his gaze shifted. Landed on me.
“I WON’T! ” Harry yelled.
I didn’t know what he meant. I didn’t care.
I stared at Snape, silently pleading.
Please save him. Please.
You don’t need to save me. I’m nothing. But Harry—Harry matters.
He always mattered.
I looked straight into Snape’s eyes. I never did that. I knew what he could do with his eyes. But this time I wanted him to see.
Please hear me. Please.
His gaze moved to Harry just as—
“Stupefy! ”
“Avada Kedavra! ”
Red and green collided in the air.
And then—
A beam of gold.
Prior Incantatem.
The magic pulsed between their wands, holding them bound in light.
I dragged myself upright, every joint screaming. I leaned against a cold tombstone to find my balance. My wand—where’s my—
There!
I snatched it up with trembling fingers. Think, Ron. Think.
No portkey. No Apparition. No one’s coming. There’s no Dumbledore. Just me.
Harry and Voldemort were rising into the air, suspended by the beam of magic.
Death Eaters were shouting—frantic, unsure. The beam was frightening them.
But two of them—two weren’t shouting. They were looking at me.
Malfoy. Snape.
They were coming for me.
My mind spun—and then, like lightning through fog, the answer came.
“DOBBY! ” I screamed. “ DOBBY! ”
Malfoy stopped in his tracks.
“Why are you calling for my elf, boy?! How do you know Dobby?!”
Pop.
The sound of salvation.
Dobby appeared beside the tombstone. Eyes wide, ears flapping.
“Save Harry Potter! ” I yelled.
Dobby didn’t wait.
The instant the golden beam explodes into light—
Dobby launched.
He wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist and disappeared.
Pop!
Gone.
Relief crashed over me in a wave so powerful I nearly collapsed again. I did it. He’s safe.
But the joy lasted a heartbeat.
Voldemort howled.
Tombstones exploded. Curses flew wild. Lucius Malfoy turned to me with murder in his eyes.
He shouted something—Latin, sharp.
I screamed “ Protego! ” but it’s like trying to block an axe with a napkin.
The curse hit me in the throat.
Agony tore through me. I felt blood , so much blood . My hands shot up instinctively to stop it, to hold it in —but there was too much.
I couldn’t breathe.
Black bloomed in my vision.
I heard someone scream—louder than I thought possible.
Then—
Pop.
A voice cried out, distant, panicked—
And then—
Nothing.
I woke up slowly. The world came back to me in pieces.
The dull ache in my throat was the first thing I registered. Then the dryness. Then the familiar ceiling of the infirmary. Then the strange weight of quiet around me.
I blinked groggily and turned my head to the right.
Harry.
Asleep in the next bed, his face half-buried in the pillow, one arm flopped over the edge of the mattress. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and I let out a slow breath of relief. He was alive.
Next to him—Sirius. Curled up in a chair, arms folded tightly, head resting against the wall behind him. The lines on his face looked deeper than I remembered. His jaw was clenched even in sleep, like he was still trying to fight off whatever nightmare had dragged us all here.
My head spun, heavy and aching. I tried to hold onto the memory of what had happened, but it was like grabbing smoke. There’d been pain—more than I thought I could bear. And before that… light? Screaming. My screaming. And Harry’s.
And before that—
A graveyard. Cloaks. A man with red eyes. A circle of masks. A golden beam between wands.
My stomach twisted.
I turned my head to the left, expecting another empty bed or curtain.
Instead, I saw Snape.
Asleep. In a chair. Arms crossed over his chest, his head tilted slightly forward. There was a harshness to his posture, even in rest—like he couldn’t relax fully, even now. Even here.
I stared. He didn’t stir.
A strange kind of cold bloomed in my chest. I thought of the graveyard. Of Voldemort’s voice. Of the ring of Death Eaters standing around us in masks and cloaks and terrible silence.
And Snape. Standing still. Expression blank. His eyes like stone.
For a second—no, longer than that—I wondered if he had been discovered.
Had they figured him out? Had he been exposed?
But… no. He was here. He was still here. If they had discovered him, he wouldn’t have made it out. They wouldn’t have let him.
So he’d played his part.
Even when I was screaming.
Even when Harry was fighting for his life.
I swallowed hard, and the pain flared up in my throat again. I coughed—a raspy, wet noise that broke the silence like a dropped plate.
Snape jerked awake instantly, his head snapping up. He looked at me, disoriented for a heartbeat.
Then he stood. Quick, sharp movements. Like it had been rehearsed.
He crossed the space between us and reached for the glass on my bedside table. One hand slid behind my head, gently lifting me from the pillow, the other guiding the glass to my lips.
I drank slowly. His fingers in my hair were steady, but cold.
“Thanks,” I rasped when the glass was empty.
He didn’t answer. Just helped me back down and returned to the chair beside me, sinking into it like the air had been knocked from his lungs. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, face in his hand.
I lay there, blinking at the ceiling, trying to work out what parts of me were still real.
Had it been real? All of it?
I remembered the voice in my head—the calm, contented fog. The feeling that everything was fine, even as I tied Harry to a tombstone. The snake. The cauldron. The wand in my hand that didn’t feel like mine.
My stomach churned.
But Harry was here. He was alive. I could hear his breath. I could see the edge of his scarred forehead peeking through his fringe.
And Snape was here too. Looking like he’d been flayed open and stitched back together by regret.
I didn’t speak. Neither did he. But the questions piled up inside me like snow: How did we get back? Was it really Dobby? Did Snape get caught? Was he hurt? Was the Order—
But I didn’t ask.
Because for now, Harry was breathing. Snape was here. I was alive.
That was enough.
So I simply kept watching him. The way his fingers pressed against his mouth. The tightness around his eyes. Like he was bracing himself for something. An explosion that hadn’t yet come.
He looked like he was in pain. Not the physical kind.
Something deeper.
“It’s okay, sir,” I said quietly. “It’s over. We all survived.”
He let out a sound. A strangled sort of breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.
“No,” he said. “You are not okay. And it is not over.”
I blinked. He still hadn’t looked at me. Just stared ahead, unmoving.
“I failed you, Ronald. I failed both of you.”
“You didn’t,” I said, in a breathy, tired voice. “You did what you had to do.”
“There is always more one could do,” he said softly. “And I… I chose silence. I watched, and I did nothing. Not when you screamed. Not when he raised his wand. Not when—”
He stopped abruptly. His voice cracked around the words he hadn’t said.
My fingers found the edge of his sleeve. I tugged gently.
“You couldn’t do anything. Not without giving yourself away.”
He still didn’t look at me.
“You’re the only one who thinks that,” he said after a moment. “You weren’t awake when your parents arrived. When Black saw the damage. When Potter looked at you. You didn’t hear what they said to me.”
I didn’t need to.
I could imagine it well enough. They’d been angry. Scared. Furious.
And Snape had been there. Easy to blame.
I swallowed thickly. My throat ached with more than pain now.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “They just… They’re scared. That’s all.”
He finally turned to look at me.
His eyes were red-rimmed. He looked exhausted. Hollowed-out.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. Very quietly. “Not after what happened.”
I didn’t stop. I held his gaze, even though it made my heart ache.
“I’m not looking at you like anything,” I said.
“You’re looking at me like I deserve sympathy,” he snapped—but his voice broke, just slightly. “Like I am worthy of kindness. I am not. Not after—”
“You are,” I said. “You are to me.”
He stared at me. I could see him trying to pull away—emotionally, mentally, physically. But I was still holding onto his sleeve, and I didn’t let go.
“They’re upset because I’m hurt. They need someone to blame. You’re always the convenient scapegoat. It’s unfair, and I’m sorry for whatever they said. They’ll come around. They always do.”
Snape dropped his gaze, and his eyes drifted down to my neck. I brought my hand to it. Felt the thick bandage. Where Lucius Malfoy tried to slit my throat.
Snape’s voice, when it came again, was barely more than a whisper.
“The curse Malfoy used was old. And dark. It will scar.”
“I’d rather have a scar and still be breathing,” I said. “Don’t you?”
Snape’s mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile, or just pain too big to hide.
There was a sound behind us. A soft throat-clear.
We both turned.
Dad stood in the entrance of the curtained ward, mug in hand, his eyes going between me and Snape, down to my fingers still curled in his sleeve.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t yell.
But he said, quietly,
“You should go.”
Snape straightened slowly. He didn’t shake me off. But I knew what that tone meant.
I gave his sleeve one last squeeze, then let go.
He looked at me. A strange expression in his eyes.
“Swift recovery, Ronald,” he said quietly.
Then he left.
And I lay back, closed my eyes for a moment.
The questions could wait.
Dad took the seat Snape had vacated, still observing me. He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just wrapped his hands around mine and held on tight.
“Mum?” I asked.
“Sleeping,” Dad said. “She needed a Calming Draught.”
I nodded, my throat gave a twinge.
“Are you in pain?”
“A little. Is Harry okay?”
Dad nodded, eyes shining.
“Cruciatus,” he said softly. “Cut on his arm. But nothing lasting. Same for you. Apart from the…”
That’s when he broke down.
Tears spilt silently.
“I’m alive,” I told him. “We’re both alive.”
He cried harder.
Fat, noisy, desperate sobs.
I didn’t let go of his hand. I let him cry. And I didn’t cry with him.
Not right then.
Because someone had to be steady for once.
And I was still here.
Still breathing.
Still holding on.
I woke up slowly again, and this time, it wasn’t silence that greeted me.
It was voices. Low ones. Tense.
I blinked, and the ceiling above me swam into focus. It still hurt to breathe too deeply, but the air didn’t burn like before. I turned my head and saw everyone.
Mum was the first to notice I was awake. She gasped and rushed to my side before I could even speak, her arms wrapping around me so tightly I thought she might pop my stitches.
“Oh, Ron—my baby—my sweet boy—”
She was crying again. Her tears soaked into the side of my hospital gown. I let her hold me. I didn’t have the strength to do anything else.
“Molly,” Dad said gently. “You have to let him breathe.”
Dumbledore added softly,
“Perhaps we should let him speak. He deserves that.”
Mum pulled back a little, just enough to see my face. She held my cheeks like I was five again, her thumbs stroking under my eyes.
“Are you in pain?” she asked, breathless.
“Not much,” I rasped. “Just sore.”
Her lip wobbled.
When the storm calmed and Mum’s handkerchief was soaked through, Dumbledore cleared his throat.
“If you feel strong enough, Ronald, Harry… we would like to understand what happened.”
We both nodded.
Dumbledore gestured for the others to sit. Mum reluctantly backed up, but stayed right beside me. Dad retook the other chair. Snape stood in the corner, arms folded, silent. Watching.
“I’d like to start with how it began,” Dumbledore said. “What do you remember?”
I took a deep breath.
“I went to the loo,” I said. “In the Three Broomsticks. That’s where it started. I was washing my hands, and I… I felt something. Like all my thoughts emptied out. Like I was floating. Happy. Calm.” I hesitated, then added, “I didn’t even feel scared when the stranger came out of the stall. He pointed a wand at me. But I didn’t care.”
I glanced at Mum. She was pale. Her lips pressed tight.
“There was a voice in my head. It told me to take the newspaper. Then, to go back to the table. And to give it to Harry.”
Harry picked up from there, his voice quiet.
“He walked up and just handed it to me. No explanation. I didn’t even have time to say anything. The second I touched it—boom. Portkey.” He shook his head. “I knew something was wrong, but Ron… he wasn’t there. Not really. I’ve never seen him like that. Empty.”
I looked down at my lap.
“I didn’t know what I was doing,” I said. “I was still under it. Even in the graveyard. I took his wand. I dragged him. I tied him down.”
Sirius’s jaw clenched. Mum squeezed my hand.
“I didn’t… I didn’t want to,” I whispered. “But it felt right. Like I was helping.”
Harry reached across and brushed my arm.
“You were gone, mate. It wasn’t you.” Then he turned to the adults. “Voldemort gave a speech. To his Death Eaters. Said I only survived as a baby because of luck. That he was going to kill me in front of them all to prove he was stronger.”
Mum made a choking noise. Dad rubbed her back.
Harry’s voice hardened.
“Then he Crucio’d Ron. Twice. For minutes. ”
I saw the horror dawn on their faces. Mum looked like she might throw up.
“You should have done something,” she snapped, suddenly glaring at Snape. “You were there—you just stood there and let my baby be tortured— ”
“Mum!” I said sharply. My throat protested, but I powered through it. “Stop. Don’t—don’t say that. He couldn’t .”
Her eyes snapped to mine.
“He’s a spy,” I said. “He’s our spy. He couldn’t risk it. If he had moved—if he had even flinched—we’d both be dead.”
“But—”
“Mum. Please .”
She was crying again, but quieter now.
Dad put a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t upset him, Molly. Not like this. He’s healing.”
Mum pressed a hand to her mouth and nodded tightly.
We waited a moment. Let everything settle.
Then Harry kept going.
“Voldemort wanted to duel. And… our spells collided. The beams connected, and then—” Harry’s voice faltered. “I saw my mum. My dad. And… others. They came out of Voldemort’s wand. They helped me.”
He shut his eyes for a moment, swallowing hard.
“Then the connection broke. And—someone grabbed me. I didn’t even see who it was, not right away. We Apparated, landed right in the middle of Hogsmeade. I told him—whoever it was—to go back for Ron. And he did.”
Harry looked down, brow furrowed.
“I still don’t get it. It was Dobby, but… I don’t know how he was there. Or why he came then. He’s always just shown up to give me vague warnings—never actually did anything to stop things from happening. This time he didn’t warn me. He saved me. Saved us. I don’t understand it.”
“Dobby came at Ron’s call,” Snape said quietly.
Everyone turned to look at me.
I blinked.
“I… I was trying to think. How to save us. We couldn’t Apparate. The portkey was most likely one-way. And Snape couldn’t act. So I… I thought of Dobby. I shouted for him.”
“And he came,” Harry added. “He came back for Ron, too. Got him out before Voldemort could curse again.”
“Where is Dobby?” I asked, suddenly. “Is he okay?”
There was a silence. Sirius looked away.
“He’s dead,” he said. “There was an old spell on him. From his master. One meant to punish betrayal. It… his master must have triggered it when Dobby saved you. Killed him instantly.”
I stared.
Dead.
Dobby was dead.
I thought of the books. The little elf with socks and a smile. A grave. Friends.
He had none of that now. No freedom. No grave. No one.
He died a slave.
Tears pricked behind my eyes. I blinked them back and took a slow breath. I wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not when we had so much to do.
Harry glanced around.
“So… now what?”
Dumbledore straightened.
“While you both were resting, I sent messages to the old members of the Order of the Phoenix. The Order is reforming. And tomorrow morning, I go to the Ministry to inform them of Voldemort’s return.”
That landed like a slap.
Mum gasped.
“Albus, are you sure? The Ministry—Fudge—he’ll never believe it. He’s been trying to undermine you for over a year.”
“He has,” Dumbledore said calmly. “But the truth does not become less true because it is denied.”
“You could lose everything,” Dad said. “Your position at Hogwarts. Your influence. They’ll try to smear you. Discredit you completely.”
“They may,” Dumbledore agreed. “But we cannot allow fear of consequence to silence us. The world deserves to know the danger that is coming.”
Sirius leaned forward, jaw tight.
“Do you think they'll believe you? After all the damage Fudge has done to your reputation?”
“They will not,” Dumbledore said without hesitation. “But that does not mean we shouldn’t try. Their disbelief will not stop Voldemort from acting. At best, it buys us time. At worst, it reveals who is still willing to stand with us.”
“What about the Prophet?” Dad asked. “They’re practically Ministry-owned now. You’ll be painted as a madman. Or worse.”
“Then let them,” Dumbledore said. “The tide will turn eventually.”
“What about Ron and Harry?” Mum’s voice was tight. “What if people try to say they made it up? What if someone accuses them of lying? The papers—”
“They won’t be alone,” Sirius said fiercely. “The Order will back them. And there were witnesses—people in Hogsmeade saw them disappear. And come back bleeding.”
“They’ll say it was a prank,” Mum muttered bitterly. “Or staged. They always twist it.”
Dumbledore folded his hands.
“That is why we act quickly and in unity. The Order is already moving. And if Ron and Harry are willing, their testimony may help others believe—eventually.”
There was a short silence after that.
The kind that only happens when every person in the room is too exhausted to argue but too afraid to agree.
It was all well and good, but I personally had a more pressing concern now.
I looked at Snape across the room, then back at Dumbledore.
“Is Snape safe?” I asked, my voice quiet but firm. “Does Voldemort know he’s a spy now? Is his cover still intact?”
Snape didn’t flinch, but his gaze cut toward me sharply. For a moment, he didn’t speak. I couldn’t read his expression. Maybe he was surprised I’d asked. Maybe he wasn’t.
On the other hand, Mum’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“You still care about him ?” she asked, voice cracking, looking toward Snape.
“Yes,” I said, voice calm. “And I care if he’s safe.”
Everyone was silent for a beat.
Snape’s expression barely shifted, but his eyes did.
“The Dark Lord blames the escape on Lucius,” he said. “It was his house elf, after all. And a servant’s betrayal reflects on the master.”
“The elf was Lucius Malfoy’s? ” Dad said, stunned.
“Why would he help you?” Mum asked.
But I didn’t care about those questions. Not now.
“So… you’re not suspected, sir?” I asked. “Even after the Ministry cleared you last year?”
Snape met my eyes.
“Several Death Eaters were cleared. I am no more suspicious than any of them.”
“And your… position?” I asked quietly.
“Secure,” he said. “My role is intact. And so, for now, is my life.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.
“Good,” I said.
That was what mattered.
That, at least, was something we hadn’t lost.