Between Walls and Whispers
The decision had been made.
Yet, making a decision was one thing-preparing for it was another entirely.
In the days that followed, the entire Order threw themselves into preparing for the ritual, leaving no stone unturned, no possibility unchecked. Every text, every ancient manuscript that even remotely mentioned rituals of this nature was scoured for answers. No spell, no rune, no incantation would go unchecked.
It became an unspoken rule that no one left Grimmauld Place without reading through the ritual at least once-seeking flaws, hidden dangers, anything that might betray them when the moment came. Even the most skeptical among them, the ones who distrusted magic of this magnitude, begrudgingly participated.
And for once, even enemies set aside their grudges.
The Marauders and Snape, who could barely stand to be in the same room without a fight breaking out, found themselves forced into an uneasy truce. The ritual required a potion-one that only Snape had the skill to brew. Despite the glares exchanged across the brewing table, the muttered insults barely restrained behind gritted teeth, the potion was made. And not just once-Snape brewed it repeatedly, testing every variable, ensuring nothing could go wrong.
Meanwhile, others focused on the runes-double-checking their placement, their alignment, ensuring the magic they summoned would be directed precisely where it needed to go. Arthur Weasley, unfamiliar with such ancient magic, observed in quiet fascination as Bill Weasley and Lily Potter debated over the precise curvature of one of the sigils.
Minerva McGonagall, ever the skeptic, watched with sharp, discerning eyes as Remus and Marlene tested the spoken incantations. Every word, every syllable, had to be exact. A single mispronunciation could alter the meaning entirely.
"We cannot afford mistakes."
That became the Order's unspoken mantra.
For an entire week, they worked tirelessly, searching for flaws, hunting for hidden dangers. Every doubt was met with debate. Every fear countered with research. Endless arguments broke out-over safety, over risk, over where to conduct the ritual, who would participate, what safeguards needed to be in place.
And yet, something else began to take root.
In the beginning, many hadn't been sure. Even those who had initially agreed to the plan had done so with hesitance, uncertain if this ritual was anything more than a desperate grasp at the unknown. There had been doubt-not just about its safety, but about whether it would work at all.
But as the days passed, as they pored over the runes and incantations of the ritual, hope-unexpected, tentative, fragile-began to grow.
The more they researched, the more they tested, the more they refined every aspect of the ritual, the more it started to feel real.
Perhaps, this wasn't just another fool's errand.
Perhaps, this wasn't just another desperate attempt to fight a war they were losing.
Perhaps-just perhaps-this might actually work.
By the time the seventh day dawned, they had exhausted every possible precaution.
They were ready.
Or, at the very least, as ready as they would ever be.
Yet, even as the final pieces fell into place, the tension that had seeped into the very walls of Grimmauld Place was not confined to the adults alone. It stretched beyond the headquarters, beyond the whispered discussions and careful preparations. It was felt elsewhere, too-by those who had not been included in the plans, yet recognized the signs of something monumental brewing in the shadows.
At Godric's Hollow, miles away from where the Order worked tirelessly, a different kind of conversation was unfolding. One tinged not with preparation, but with curiosity, uncertainty, and frustration. The younger ones had noticed the shift-their parents' absences, the hurried meetings, the way their whispered conversations ceased the moment one of them walked into the room. It was impossible not to wonder, not to question what was being hidden from them.
Gathered in the living room of Godric's Hollow, surrounded by the remnants of a half-forgotten afternoon-tea cups gone cold, books lying open and ignored-a small group sat together, their voices filling the space in the room. It had become a habit over the past week, these unspoken meetings, where they tried to piece together what little they knew.
"You think they're actually going to tell us anything?" Ron muttered, his voice betraying the frustration that had been building for days.
"Well, of course, they don't," Fred chimed in, grinning mischievously. "Would you want us meddling in whatever they've got going on? It probably involves dangerous magic." He added the last part with an exaggerated tone of mock seriousness.
"Shush, Fred," George cut in, giving his twin a playful shove. "Dangerous magic or not, I want to know what it is. I bet we could be useful, too."
"So... are we just going to pretend nothing is going on?"
Fred crossed his arms as he leaned against the arm of the sofa. His twin, George, smirked beside him.
"Oh, I thought we were just imagining that our parents have been sneaking off to headquarters every five minutes."
Ginny, sitting on the floor with her legs stretched out, scowled. "Mum won't say a word about it. Not one. Every time I ask, she just mutters something about 'Order business' and changes the subject."
Charles Potter, who had been lounging lazily on the couch, stretched out as though the weight of the world was something he could easily shake off. "So, who's taking bets on what our dear parents are hiding this time?" he asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.
Ron snorted. "Something big," he muttered. "Mum's been pacing so much she's gonna wear the floor down at this point."
"She could at least pick a more interesting way to stress," Fred mused.
"Pacing is just lazy," George agreed.
Orion Black, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement, leaned forward with a smirk. "You're telling me you lot haven't tried sneaking in to listen?" He feigned disbelief, shaking his head. "Disappointing, Weasley. And here I thought you had some of those famous twin instincts."
Ron scowled. "Hard to sneak anywhere when they watch us like hawks and do everything possible to keep us out."
Lyra Black, draped elegantly over the armchair, rolled her eyes. "Honestly, you all act as if this is some grand mystery. It's obvious, isn't it? They're planning something. We're moving to Grimmauld Place next week, and suddenly, all their secret meetings have tripled? You do the math."
"I'd rather not," George muttered.
"It's not like they're going to tell us anything," Rose Potter pointed out, ever the practical one. She twirled a loose curl around her finger absentmindedly. "Careful as they are, we still haven't figured anything out."
"Yet," Charles corrected smugly. "Once we're at Grimmauld Place, we'll have more chances to slip away, listen in-"
"Assuming you don't get caught first," Lyra drawled.
"Don't underestimate us," Fred said cheerfully.
"Never," Orion smirked.
The conversation lulled for a moment before Ginny shifted in her seat. "At least we'll have Hermione there soon," she remarked. "She's still with her parents in France, right?"
Ron nodded. "Yeah, but she'll be there once we move in."
"She's not going to let us get away with anything, though," Charles said with a mock groan.
Orion smirked. "Oh, absolutely not. Hermione Granger? The reigning champion of Rules Are Sacred?"
"She's not that bad," Ron defended, though there was clear exasperation in his voice. "She just likes knowing things."
"And making sure we know them too," Lyra added dryly.
Despite the teasing, there was an undeniable fondness beneath it. No one truly disliked Hermione-she was simply Hermione, and that came with an acceptance of her relentless need for order and knowledge.
"She's at least better than some of the others," Rose remarked.
"Oh, Neville's coming too," Ginny informed them. "His parents are in the Order, and with all of us shifting to Grimmauld, he'll be staying there as well."
Charles tilted his head slightly. "Neville?"
Ginny nodded. "Mum told us that Alice and Frank have been away a lot lately, so they figured it'd be easier for him to stay with us instead of being alone at home."
Charles hummed thoughtfully. "Huh. I mean, yeah, that makes sense."
There was no real reaction beyond that-no excitement, no complaints. Just quiet acknowledgment. Neville wasn't a friend of theirs, but he wasn't a stranger either. He was nice, sweet, a bit clumsy-the sort of person who never caused trouble, never made a fuss. He had always been there in the background, soft-spoken and polite whenever they'd met him at family gatherings.
"Guess he won't be too bad," Orion mused. "I mean, he's not the most exciting company, but he's... alright."
Lyra smirked. "As long as he doesn't trip over any cursed objects, we should be fine."
Fred grinned. "Oh, I give it a week before he knocks over something ancient and deadly."
"Three days," George countered.
Ginny shot them a look. "Neville's not that bad."
Fred just smirked.
"Luna might be joining us too," Ginny added.
There was a pause before Charles let out a laugh. "Oh, brilliant. Loony Lovegood in Grimmauld Place? We'll have to make sure she doesn't start summoning imaginary creatures in the basement."
Orion chuckled. "Maybe she'll decorate the place with wrackspurts."
Ginny's glare sharpened. "Luna's different, not mad."
"Oh, come off it, Ginny," Charles drawled. "Even you have to admit she's a bit-"
"She's just different," Ginny repeated firmly, her expression daring them to argue. "And her dad's working discreetly for the Order, so she's coming whether you like it or not."
Before the conversation could escalate into a full-blown argument, Lyra casually leaned back and said, "Alright, that's enough of the Lovegood Defense Squad."
Rose nodded. "Yes, yes, let's all move on before we start debating the existence of nargles."
The others relented, the discussion shifting back into safer waters.
The discussion carried on, playful jabs and half-serious speculation filling the room as the group continued piecing together what little they knew. Yet, for all their theories, for all their frustrations, the truth remained just beyond their reach-carefully guarded behind closed doors and whispered conversations.
Eventually, as the afternoon light dimmed into evening, the group began to disperse. Ginny stretched with a yawn, Ron muttered something about food, and Fred and George exchanged a glance that all but confirmed they were about to cause trouble elsewhere. The room slowly emptied, leaving only a lingering hum of unfinished conversations and unanswered questions in the air.
But while curiosity simmered among them, there was one person who wasn't caught in the web of uncertainty.
Upstairs, in the dimly lit library, Harry Potter turned another page.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there, but it was long enough for the candlelight to flicker low, shadows stretching across the walls. Faint voices murmured from downstairs, the familiar tones of his siblings and their friends drifting through the floorboards.
He ignored them.
His fingers traced the edge of the parchment, the faded ink of a Runes translation catching his attention more than anything they had to say. He had long since stopped expecting anything different from them.
It wasn't that he wanted to be included. He had outgrown that desire years ago. But there was a time-a distant, long-buried time-when he had tried. When he had still believed that maybe, just maybe, he could belong among them.
That time was over.
His place was here, among knowledge, among things that made sense. Books didn't whisper behind his back. Runes didn't look at him with cautious distance or shift in discomfort when he walked by. Magic didn't care what house he was in.
And that suited him just fine.
Downstairs, they spoke of the coming weeks with excitement. Upstairs, Harry had already decided.
He would not be waiting for answers. He would find them himself.
Exhaling, he closed the book in his lap, running his fingers over the golden embossing of its title. Knowledge was all he had-magic, history, runes, the quiet companionship of ink and parchment. Not family. Not belonging.
And that was fine.
With a practiced ease, he reached for another book, flipped open its pages, and forced himself to focus. Because in the end, if he was meant to walk alone, then he would make sure that no one could ever leave him behind again.