Something
Sometimes, humans need something to understand someone's morals.
—————
Harry woke up with a sharp gasp. His chest rose and fell rapidly, overwhelmed by emotions he couldn’t quite name. His vision was still blurry, but the cold sensation of the stone floor beneath him confirmed that he was still alive. His head felt heavy, and when he lifted a hand to touch his temple, he felt the familiar throb of his scar.
Memories crashed into him.
The events in the Great Hall. The unyielding magic that had bound him. The sharp, victorious gaze of the man who had been his greatest enemy—Voldemort. It all replayed in his mind as if it had happened mere seconds ago.
Rage burned within him. His fingers curled into fists, knuckles turning white. He wanted to scream, to fight back, to strike. But his body remained frozen, trapped by the cruel reality before him. Even if he resisted, fate had already laughed in his face, placing him in a position where he could do nothing.
Silent tears fell. Not out of weakness, but because he was too exhausted to keep holding everything in.
Footsteps approached. Harry held his breath, straightening his back despite the dizziness still clouding his mind. In the dim glow of the torches lining the walls, a figure he knew all too well emerged before him. Voldemort stood with his ever-present elegance, regarding him as though he were a puzzle yet to be fully solved.
“You’re finally awake,” Voldemort’s voice was smooth, yet laced with quiet authority.
Harry lifted his chin slightly, refusing to appear weak in front of him. “What do you want?” His voice was hoarse, but his eyes still burned with defiance.
A small smile tugged at Voldemort’s lips, as if he found amusement in Harry’s unyielding spirit despite the circumstances. “Answers, of course. And perhaps… more than that.”
Harry didn’t reply.
Voldemort approached with measured steps, moving so casually it was as if he were visiting an old friend. Harry clenched his jaw, resisting the instinct to recoil. He refused to show fear—not in front of this man.
“You look so emotional, Harry,” Voldemort murmured, his voice a poisonous whisper that slithered into Harry’s mind. “Are the memories that painful? Or… are you beginning to realize something?”
Harry remained silent, though it felt as if a dagger had been driven into his chest. Voldemort arched a brow before crouching before him, closing the space between them. Those crimson eyes studied him with an intensity that made Harry’s skin crawl.
“I can help you,” Voldemort continued, his voice low, almost enticing. “I can offer you something the world you so blindly trusted never could.”
Harry scoffed. “And what would that be? Lies? Betrayal? I want nothing from you.”
Voldemort chuckled softly. “Oh, Harry… You’re still so naïve. You know, Dumbledore always saw you as nothing more than a piece in his war. The so-called Light never hesitated to demand your sacrifice. And look where you are now—at my mercy. They couldn’t even protect you.”
The words struck deep, like nails driven straight into his heart. Harry wanted to argue, to insist that Dumbledore and those he loved weren’t like that. But a quiet voice within him whispered otherwise, reminding him of every hardship he had endured, every shattered hope.
He bit his lip, trying to suppress the storm of emotions within him. Voldemort saw it—and a faint smirk tugged at his lips. He knew his words had found their mark.
“I don’t need your answer now,” Voldemort finally said, rising to his full height and looking down at Harry. “But in time, you will understand.”
Then, without warning, he snapped his fingers. A wave of drowsiness crashed over Harry, so overpowering that he couldn’t even fight it. His vision blurred, and within seconds, he was pulled back into the abyss of unconsciousness.
****
In his grand private chamber, Voldemort sat behind a carved black wooden desk, his fingers tapping the surface in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows on the towering stone walls. At a glance, the room resembled an ancient library, filled with shelves upon shelves of forbidden knowledge he had gathered over the years.
But his mind was not on those books tonight.
His thoughts were trapped by something deeper—something more personal.
Harry Potter.
He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a brief moment. This feeling… this obsession… was not something he could simply ignore. Harry was not just the Boy Who Lived. Not merely an obstacle in his path to supremacy.
Harry was the key.
The last living descendant of Peverell.
A bloodline so pure, so rare—and he had the opportunity to ensure it would not fall into the wrong hands. More than that, he had the chance to create something greater—something perfect.
A true heir.
A child who would possess unparalleled intelligence, power, and blood. A legacy that would extend beyond anything he had ever envisioned.
But…
His fingers tightened around the armrest of his chair. There was a conflict within him. Something unfamiliar. He had long since eradicated weakness from himself, erased every trace of emotion that could hinder his ambitions. And yet, every time he thought of this, something within him wavered.
Harry was not just a tool. He knew that. He was not a puppet to be manipulated without consequence.
Harry was fire—wild, untamed, and yet utterly captivating.
Voldemort rose from his chair, walking toward the tall window that overlooked the darkened night. The cold wind whispered against the glass, but nothing was colder than the thoughts swirling in his mind.
He had taken the first step. Harry was in his hands now.
But how he would play his next move…
That was the question that kept him awake through the silent hours of the night.
He rose from his chair with effortless grace, moving toward the tall window that framed the night sky, bathed in moonlight and scattered with stars. Yet it felt bleak. His pale hand touched the cold, fogged glass.
Voldemort stood before the towering window, gazing at the dark heavens—black as his own robes. The night wind slipped through the cracks of the castle’s ancient stone walls, carrying the scent of damp earth and chilling air. But his thoughts were far colder.
Behind him, the soft sound of something slithering echoed in the silence. A massive serpent approached, coiling around his feet with a gentle, deliberate motion. Gleaming yellow eyes locked onto his, brimming with devotion.
"Nagini,"Voldemort murmured, his voice low and controlled. "You understand, don’t you?"
Voldemort finally spoke in Parseltongue.
The great snake lifted her head slightly, hissing in response.
“Master… you seem troubled.”
A faint smile flickered across Voldemort’s lips—an expression rare and devoid of warmth. "Troubled? No. I am merely thinking."
Nagini slithered away, circling the grand chair in the chamber. “You are thinking about the boy again.”
His eyes narrowed. "The boy… is a puzzle yet to be solved. He is more than an enemy, more than a threat. He is the key."
“The key to what?”
Voldemort moved slowly, his fingers brushing over the carved armrest of his chair, his touch nearly gentle. "His blood. The last heir of Peverell. The power within him can be shaped, molded to my will." He paused, voice dropping lower. "Or… destroyed completely."
Nagini hissed softly, the sound resembling laughter. “And which part makes you hesitate? I can feel the doubt within you, Master.”
Voldemort’s gaze turned sharp. "I do not hesitate, Nagini. I am merely calculating the best strategy." Yet, even as he spoke, something within him felt unsteady.
A faint creak echoed from the far end of the room. From the shadows, a grand portrait shifted ever so slightly. A man with long, dark hair and deep green robes, eyes as black as the abyss, stared at Voldemort with an intense gaze.
Salazar Slytherin.
"Tom Riddle," the deep, resonant voice of the founder carried across the room. "What troubles you so deeply that you stand there, lost in thought?"
Voldemort turned slowly, meeting the piercing eyes of the portrait. "I am not troubled, Salazar. I am contemplating the future."
Salazar chuckled, the sound low and knowing. "Ah, the future. Always of concern to those who hunger for power. But I am not blind, Tom. I see the unrest in your mind. You speak of a true heir… but I sense more than mere plans brewing in your thoughts."
Voldemort stepped closer, his stare sharp as a dagger. "Say what you mean, Salazar. I have no patience for riddles."
Salazar smirked and then sneered, 'But you are a 'Riddle,'Tom? Or should I mention your previous identity?'"
Voldemort cast a sharp, menacing gaze at the portrait. In the past few years, he had developed a desire to rip it apart and burn it to ashes.
But he quickly regained his previous expression, demonstrating his immense self-control. Additionally, he rolled his eyes mockingly, realizing there was no point in arguing about it now.
The painted man narrowed his eyes, as if weighing his words carefully. "I see hesitation, Tom. There is something about the boy that disturbs you. Something you cannot so easily cast aside."
Voldemort’s hand clenched into a fist. "The boy is a tool, nothing more. If I can use him, I will. If he becomes a threat, he will be destroyed. It is that simple."
Salazar’s smirk was barely perceptible. "Simple? No, I don’t believe it is. You may deceive everyone else, even yourself, but I have watched many heirs rise and fall. I recognize change when it happens."
A slow burn of anger stirred within Voldemort. "I have not changed. I abandoned useless emotions long ago."
Nagini slithered closer, hissing softly. “Have you?”
Voldemort cast her a warning glance. "I do not need judgment from a beast or a portrait." He turned away, striding back to his black wooden desk, resting his hand upon its surface for a moment. "What I need is a plan."
Salazar studied him in silence before speaking again, his voice quieter, yet laden with caution. "If you truly wish to make the boy a part of your legacy, you must ensure he bends to your will. But be warned, Tom. Harry Potter is not one to be easily controlled. He is fire. And if you grasp too tightly, you may find yourself burned."
Voldemort let out a quiet laugh, void of amusement. "I do not burn, Salazar. I am the fire itself."
Voldemort hissed Parseltongue at the end of his sentence.
Yet even as he uttered those words, something unsettled him. Not fear, not doubt… but something deeper. Something he refused to name.
Nagini hissed beside him, her voice barely above a whisper. “Master… you know that the choice you make tonight will decide more than just the boy’s fate. It will decide your own.”
Voldemort closed his eyes for a brief moment. Then, with a slow movement, he raised his wand and flicked it toward the candles in the room. With a single wave, their flames extinguished, plunging the chamber into utter darkness.
"I will make my decision,"he murmured, voice barely audible. "And I will not fail."
Yet even in the black void of the room, Salazar’s painted smirk lingered—subtle, knowing, as though he had already seen what Voldemort refused to acknowledge.
That night, the Dark Lord remained awake, surrounded by shadows and whispers he could not entirely control.
Voldemort left his private chamber, Nagini slithering beside him. With a low hiss in Parseltongue, he commanded her to stop following him. The great serpent hesitated for a moment before gliding away into the shadows.
The corridors were silent, save for the soft rustle of his robes as he moved with deliberate slowness. Darkness clung to him, trailing his every step like a faithful servant. The air grew colder, as if the castle itself bowed to his presence.
When he reached the door, his hand hovered over the handle. His crimson eyes studied the dark wood, carved with the twisting figure of a serpent—a mark of Slytherin, a reminder of the bloodline he so proudly carried. With an almost inaudible breath, he pushed the door open without a sound.
Harry lay on the bed, his breathing steady, but the faint crease between his brows revealed the tension that never left him. Even in sleep, he remained guarded, as if the ghosts of his battles still whispered to him.
Voldemort stood at the edge of the bed, gazing down at him. So alike, yet so different. The blood of Peverell ran through his veins, a testament to a lineage long thought lost to time. But that was not what gave Voldemort pause.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to a place he had long abandoned—a fragment of a past that refused to be erased.
------
Shadows of memory crept in. He had been just a boy then, but not like other children. He had not cried when left in that miserable place, nor had he sought comfort from the caretakers who treated their charges more like prisoners than wards.
He remembered the cold nights, the sound of rats scurrying behind damp walls. The other children would huddle under thin blankets, whispering about monsters in the dark. But he had never feared the dark. He had sat alone, back straight, staring at the cracked ceiling with the quiet rage of someone who knew he did not belong.
He was different. He had always known.
"Tom, you're strange," one of the children had whispered in fear.
He had turned his head, dark eyes sharp and unyielding. "I'm not strange. I'm special."
And he was.
He could do things no one else could. He could make objects move without touching them. He could make people hurt with just a glance. And he could speak to snakes—something no one else in that wretched orphanage could do.
He remembered punishing Billy Stubbs for daring to insult him. A centipede, grotesquely large, had crawled onto Billy’s bed, skittering over his face before sinking its fangs into his neck. Billy had screamed and screamed, but no one had seen Tom do anything. He had simply sat there, watching, smiling ever so slightly.
And he remembered the day he had revealed his power to Mrs. Cole.
"Tom, you must stop frightening the other children," she had said, eyes wary.
"I'm not frightening them, Mrs. Cole," he had replied, voice calm. "They choose to be afraid."
He had seen the way her expression shifted then—from stern warning to pure, unadulterated fear. They were all afraid of him. And he had relished i
------
Back in the present, Voldemort exhaled slowly. He was no longer that boy in Wool’s Orphanage. He had cast off that past, erased his weaknesses, forged himself into something greater.
Yet looking at Harry now… it reminded him of something he had long sought to forget.
Without realizing it, his fingers extended, hovering just above Harry’s unruly black hair. A breath away from touch. But at the last moment, he withdrew his hand.
"You and I… are more alike than you think, Harry," he whispered.
Harry did not hear him. He remained deep in sleep, lost in dreams laced with shadows. But Voldemort knew—sooner or later, the boy would understand.
And when that time came, the world would never be the same.
In the silence of the room, Voldemort finally sat at the edge of the bed, his eyes tracing every inch of the body lying before him. Harry's breathing was steady, his chest rising and falling in a calm rhythm, completely unaware of the intense gaze watching over him.
Slowly, Voldemort extended his hand. His long, pale fingers hovered above the golden-brown skin, barely touching. That skin... warm, alive—so different from his own, which was cold and marble-like, devoid of any trace of life.
He observed every detail—the faint scars scattered across Harry's body, remnants of battles and suffering. Yet beneath it all, his skin remained smooth, soft beneath Voldemort's touch. He let his fingertips trace down Harry’s arm, gliding over his wrist, feeling the pulse of life beating just beneath the surface.
"So fragile," he murmured, almost a whisper. "Yet so stubborn to remain alive."
His fingers moved lower, tracing over his chest, feeling the warmth that radiated from Harry’s body. There was something almost... soothing about the sensation. Something he should not be feeling. Voldemort let out a quiet scoff, mocking himself. Emotions were a weakness, and he had killed that weakness long ago.
But when his hand reached Harry's abdomen, he stopped.
His gaze darkened, his thoughts filled with something far beyond mere observation. This was where the core of his plan lay. Harry’s womb, his blood—this was what would create the perfect heir. A true descendant who would carry their bloodline to heights unseen before.
His stare grew sharper, filled with an intensity bordering on obsession. His fingers moved again, touching the smooth skin with a careful reverence, as if touching something both sacred and dangerous.
"This is where it will all begin," he murmured, almost to himself. "Your blood, your womb… will give birth to an heir like no other."
Voldemort fell silent for a moment, allowing his mind to drift into the future he had so meticulously planned. The image of a child with their blood, their power—stronger than any wizard before them…
And yet, something strange crept into his thoughts. Doubt? No, not doubt. Just… something he had yet to define. His gaze returned to Harry’s face, still deep in slumber, unaware of the decision that had already been made for him.
Voldemort took a slow breath before whispering, more to himself than anyone else, "You will understand, Harry. One day, you will understand."
...
A long silence stretched between him and his thoughts. Voldemort acknowledged that he despised his past self—weak, powerless, and constantly oppressed. A boy who was forced to eat thin, tasteless gruel, who worked through the bitter cold of winter with no reprieve. He would never forget that horrifying experience, the one that happened right before his birth anniversary. No… he preferred to call it his day of birth rather than that disgusting term ‘birthday.’
Flashback
Snow fell heavily outside, blanketing the orphanage yard in a merciless sheet of white. Tom sat in the corner of the room, his thin fingers clutching a small piece of stale bread he had managed to snatch earlier.
“Tom!”
A sharp voice called his name, forcing him to look up. Billy Stubbs, with a wicked grin stretched across his face, strode toward him. Behind him stood Dennis Bishop and Amy Benson, two children who relished his suffering.
“You think you could steal my marbles and get away with it?” Billy accused, his eyes flashing with fury.
“I didn’t steal them,” Tom replied flatly, though anger was already boiling within him.
“Liar!” Billy shoved his shoulder hard, nearly knocking him over.
Before Tom could retaliate, the sound of heavy shoes echoed through the wooden floor. Mrs. Cole stood at the doorway, her face contorted with rage.
“Tom Riddle!” Her voice thundered. “To the laundry room, now! You will wash every filthy piece of clothing in this orphanage until they are spotless. And after that, you will clear the yard of snow!”
“But—”
“No buts!” Mrs. Cole swung her wooden ruler through the air, striking his back harshly. The sting of pain forced him into silence. With a seething glare, he turned and walked toward the basement laundry room.
The icy water bit into his hands as he plunged the fabric into the basin. His fingers were numb, his lips trembling, but there was no choice. He had to finish this.
Footsteps approached. Billy and Dennis appeared at the doorway, smirking.
“Look who’s being punished again,” Dennis chuckled.
Billy dipped his hand into the basin and splashed freezing water onto Tom’s head. “Oops, my hand slipped.”
Laughter rang through the cold room. Tom clenched his fists, but he knew better than to strike back now. No, he would wait. He would get his revenge—just not yet.
As he lifted a heavy, soaked garment, Billy kicked the bucket, spilling water all over the floor and soaking Tom’s trousers.
“Clean that up too, servant,” Billy sneered.
After what felt like hours of scrubbing clothes, his hands raw and stiff, he was sent outside to clear the snow. The frigid air sliced through his already frozen body like a thousand knives.
Amy Benson arrived, tossing a small shovel at his feet. “Here’s your tool,” she mocked, watching as he was forced to pick it up with shaking fingers.
He started shoveling, his breath coming in ragged puffs. But Billy and his friends didn’t leave. They watched, entertained, throwing snow at him now and then. One hard-packed ball struck his face, knocking him back.
“Come on, Tom, work faster!” Billy jeered. “Or would you like us to help in another way?”
Tom didn’t answer. His breathing was labored from the cold. But Billy and Dennis weren’t satisfied. They grabbed his coat and ripped it apart, leaving him with only a thin layer of clothing against the biting cold.
“Look at him now, a perfect little beggar,” Dennis laughed as Amy poured cold water over his head.
The chill was unbearable, sinking deep into his bones. His fingers stiffened, each movement turning into agony. He had to endure. But his hatred, his fury, burned hotter than ever.
And later that night, when all the other children were sleeping in their warm beds, Tom Riddle stood in the corner of his room, his eyes dark with loathing. His lips moved, whispering something he did not yet fully understand, yet it felt natural.
The next morning, Billy Stubbs found his beloved hamster hanging dead in its cage, and Amy Benson began waking up at night screaming in terror.
In the darkness, Tom Riddle smiled.
Flashback End
He rose to his feet, withdrawing his hand, and looked at the boy one last time before turning away. His steps were calm, but his mind was not. He had taken the first step toward his plan. Now, he only needed to ensure that everything would unfold according to his will.
At the threshold, Voldemort paused for a moment. His gaze drifted back to the figure lying on the bed, his breathing steady in deep slumber. He stared for a long while, as if engraving every detail into his memory.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he murmured to himself, "Fate has chosen you, Harry—chosen us. You just don't realize it yet."
With light yet purposeful steps, he left the room, allowing silence to reclaim the space. But his mind did not rest. There were other matters to attend to—Harry’s friends.
The long, cold corridor led him to the holding cells. Behind the iron bars, the young witches and wizards who had once been so full of defiance now sat in the shadows of despair. Ron Weasley stood restlessly, his face flushed red with suppressed anger. Hermione Granger leaned against the wall, her expression calculating, searching for a way out of their predicament. Ginny Weasley hugged herself, yet her eyes burned with unwavering resolve. George Weasley, usually full of mischief, remained silent, his jaw clenched. Neville Longbottom stared directly at Voldemort, his hatred unmistakable, while Luna Lovegood simply watched him with an unreadable expression.
"Look at you," Voldemort stepped closer, his voice dripping with mockery. "Little lions, wounded yet still trying to roar."
"What have you done to Harry?!" Ron was the first to explode, gripping the bars as if he could break through by sheer will alone.
Voldemort smirked, though his eyes remained cold. "Harry? Oh, he is perfectly fine. Far better off than you, certainly."
Hermione lifted her chin, though fear flickered in her eyes. "You won’t change him. No matter what you do, you can’t turn his heart."
Voldemort chuckled softly, his gaze narrowing. "Ah, clever Hermione Granger. But intelligence means nothing when you lack the power to change anything." He leaned in slightly. "And power, unfortunately for you, is in my hands."
Ginny, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. "If you hurt him, I swear I'll kill you with my own hands."
Voldemort raised an eyebrow, as if amused by the declaration. "So loyal, so full of fire. But you forget one thing, Ginny Weasley—empty promises mean nothing if you lack the power to fulfill them."
Then, unexpectedly, Luna spoke, her voice soft but piercing. "You're afraid, aren’t you?"
The room fell into silence. Everyone turned to look at Luna, shocked by her boldness. Even Voldemort tensed for a brief moment before a small smirk curled on his lips.
"Afraid?" He repeated the word as if tasting it on his tongue. "And what makes you think that, Luna Lovegood?"
Luna met his crimson eyes directly. "Because you know Harry is different. You know he can do something you can't predict. And that frightens you."
For a moment, Voldemort simply stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then he stepped closer, allowing the dim light to cast shadows over his serpentine features.
"You have an unusual kind of bravery, Luna," he said softly. "But bravery will only lead you to ruin."
Neville gritted his teeth. "You'll never win. You can torture us, imprison us, even kill us—but you'll never truly have victory."
Voldemort turned his gaze to Neville, his interest piqued. "Ah, Longbottom… so much like your foolish parents. They, too, held the same belief. And look where they are now?"
Neville clenched his fists, but George grabbed his arm, holding him back. There was fury in all of their eyes, yet they knew there was nothing they could do—not now.
Voldemort straightened, his gaze sweeping over each of them, a small smirk still playing on his lips. "I merely came to see how you all were faring. After all, you are part of this story, aren’t you?" He tilted his head slightly. "But the ending—" his voice lowered, filled with chilling certainty, "—will be mine to decide."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving them in the darkness of their cell, their determination burning brighter than ever.
***
The dimly lit prison cell was filled with the sound of hushed breaths. Cold stone walls and iron bars stood as silent witnesses to the tension that gripped the small group. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of dust and something metallic—perhaps blood. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across their faces, emphasizing the exhaustion, the bruises, and the sheer weight of everything they had endured.
Ron, Hermione, Luna, Ginny, George, and Neville sat in a tight circle, their gazes filled with anxiety and uncertainty.
"We can't just sit here!" Ron finally burst out, his voice trembling with a mix of frustration and desperation. His hands clenched into fists, knuckles turning white. "We have to do something to get out of here and save Harry. We can't let that fucking bastard keep him!"
Hermione let out a long, shaky breath, her hands gripping at her robes as if grounding herself. "I know, Ron. But we have to think carefully. We don't even know where we are or how to escape this place. Rushing in without a plan will only get us killed—or worse, turned into something Voldemort can use against Harry."
Luna, usually dreamy and lost in her own thoughts, looked unusually serious. Her wide eyes, often filled with whimsical wonder, now held a sharp glint of awareness. "Voldemort must be keeping Harry in his most guarded location. We need to figure out how to get there without being caught."
George leaned back against the wall, his fingers tracing patterns against the cold stone absentmindedly. His usual mischievous smirk was long gone, replaced by something much darker. "It’s hard to believe we’re here, in the enemy’s prison. It’s like all the memories of our old lives… belong to a different time, a different world. One where we were free. One where Fred was still alive." His voice cracked on the last word, but he didn’t let himself break. Not here. Not now.
Ginny, who had been silent until now, suddenly wiped her face with the back of her hand and bowed her head. "I can't… I can't imagine what Harry is going through right now..."
Tears welled up in her eyes before spilling down her cheeks. Her voice wavered, but she pushed forward. "He’s always been the one protecting us. Always the first to stand at the front, fighting for all of us... and now, we can’t even do anything for him! What if—” She cut herself off, biting her lip so hard it nearly bled.
Neville clenched his fists, his entire body vibrating with barely contained anger. "I agree with Ron. We have to act. If we stay here, we’re just waiting to be victims. And I refuse to be a fucking victim." His voice was steady, his tone sharper than they had ever heard before.
Hermione wiped at her teary eyes, steeling herself. "But how? We don’t have our wands, we’re heavily guarded, and this place is crawling with Death Eaters. Even if we escape, then what? We’d be running straight into the jaws of the beast."
George smirked, but it wasn’t his usual playful grin. It was sharper, edged with something lethal. "Maybe we don’t have our wands, but we still have our brains. We’ve faced tough situations before. There’s no reason to give up now. Besides, we’re Gryffindors and Ravenclaw, aren’t we? Reckless plans are practically in our blood."
Ron nodded, his blue eyes ablaze with determination. "We have to work together. If we can find even the smallest opening, we can break out of here. We’ve done crazier things before—this is just another impossible mission."
Ginny lifted her head, her red-rimmed eyes now burning with something fiercer than grief—determination. "We won’t leave Harry behind. We’ll find him. No matter what. I don’t care if we have to fight our way through an entire army of Death Eaters, I am not letting that monster keep him."
A thick silence settled over the room as they exchanged glances, reading the resolve in each other’s faces. They knew the risks. They knew the chances of failure outweighed their chances of success. They knew that death was a very real possibility.
But they also knew one thing that was stronger than their fear: their love and loyalty to Harry.
Hermione finally spoke, her voice quiet but filled with unshakable certainty. "Alright. We make a plan. And we don’t stop until we succeed."
One by one, they reached out, clasping hands, strengthening the bond they had built over years of friendship, of shared battles, of victories and losses.
Tonight, hope still burned within them—no matter how small, no matter how fragile.
And they would fight for it.