36. Page Three Hundred and Ninety-Four
Professor Dumbledore sent all the Gryffindors back to the Great Hall, where they were joined ten minutes later by the students from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin, all of whom looked extremely confused.
"The teachers and I need to conduct a thorough search of the castle," Professor Dumbledore told them as Professors McGonagall and Flitwick closed all the doors to the Hall. "For your own safety, you will have to spend the night here. I want the Prefects to stand guard over the entrances, and I'm leaving the Head Boy and Girl in charge. Any disturbance should be reported to me immediately," he added, glancing at Percy, who looked immensely proud of himself. "Send word with one of the ghosts."
As Dumbledore turned to leave, he paused. "Oh, yes, you'll be needing..."
With a wave of his wand, the long tables slid to the edges of the Hall, stacking themselves neatly against the walls. Another flick, and the floor was covered with hundreds of squashy purple sleeping bags.
"Sleep well," he said before stepping out and shutting the doors behind him.
The moment he was gone, the Hall erupted into excited chatter. Gryffindors eagerly retold what had happened to the rest of the school, everyone craning their necks to hear more.
"Everyone into their sleeping bags!" Percy barked, puffing out his chest. "No more talking! Lights out in ten minutes!"
"C'mon," Ron said, nudging Harry, Hermione, and Hope. The four of them grabbed sleeping bags and dragged them to a quiet corner.
As they settled in, Hermione whispered anxiously, "Do you think Black's still in the castle?"
"Dumbledore obviously thinks he might be," Ron muttered.
"It's lucky he picked tonight, you know," Hermione said, propping herself up on her elbow. "The one night we weren't in the Tower..."
"I reckon he's lost track of time, being on the run," Ron said. "Didn't realize it was Hallowe'en. Otherwise, he'd have come bursting in here."
"Would he, though?" Hope mused, staring up at the enchanted ceiling. "He wouldn't stand a chance against all the professors. It'd be a death wish."
"You think he does know?" Ron asked.
"Maybe," Hope said, her voice uncertain. "Maybe he thought since we'd all be down here, he'd get lucky and catch him alone. He must be smart — he broke out of Azkaban, after all."
Hermione shuddered.
All around them, students whispered the same question: How did he get in?
"Maybe he knows how to Apparate," a nearby Ravenclaw suggested.
"Disguised himself, probably," Cedric Diggory added.
"He could've flown in," Dean offered.
Hermione huffed, folding her arms. "Honestly, am I the only person who's ever bothered to read Hogwarts, A History?"
"Probably," Ron shrugged.
"I skimmed it," Hope admitted.
"Why?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Because the castle's protected by more than just walls," Hermione said impatiently. "There are all sorts of enchantments to stop people from sneaking in. You can't just Apparate inside. And I'd love to see the disguise that could fool Dementors. They're guarding every entrance. They'd have seen him fly in, too. And Filch knows all the secret passages—they'll have those covered..."
"The lights are going out now!" Percy's voice rang across the Hall. "Everyone in their sleeping bags, no more talking!"
The candles flickered out at once, leaving only the eerie glow of the enchanted ceiling and the silvery figures of ghosts floating between rows of students. The whispers gradually died down, but the vast Hall still felt alive, as if they were sleeping outside under a sky full of stars.
Every hour, a teacher would step in to check on them. Around three in the morning, when most students had finally drifted off, Professor Dumbledore entered.
Hope, still awake, watched as he scanned the room, his gaze landing on Percy, who was prowling between sleeping bags, shushing anyone who so much as shifted. Percy wasn't far from Hope, Harry, Ron, and Hermione. The moment Dumbledore's footsteps drew close, they quickly shut their eyes, pretending to be asleep.
"Any sign of him, Professor?" Percy whispered.
"No," Dumbledore answered. "All well here?"
"Everything under control, sir." Percy nodded stiffly.
"Good. There's no point moving them now. I've found a temporary guardian for the Gryffindor portrait hole. You'll all be able to return tomorrow."
"And the Fat Lady, sir?" Percy asked.
"Hiding in a map of Argyllshire on the second floor," Dumbledore replied. "Apparently, she refused to let Black in without the password, so he attacked her. She's still very distressed, but once she's calmed, I'll have Filch restore her."
The door creaked open again. More footsteps.
"Headmaster?" It was Snape.
Hope lay completely still, straining to hear. She was certain the others were doing the same.
"The whole third floor has been searched. He's not there," Snape reported, his voice low and sharp. "Filch checked the dungeons—nothing there either."
"What about the Astronomy Tower? Professor Trelawney's room? The Owlery?" Dumbledore asked.
"All searched."
Dumbledore sighed. "Very well, Severus. I didn't truly expect Black to linger."
Snape hesitated. "Headmaster, you remember the conversation we had before the start of term?"
Hope adjusted her position slightly, squinting through the dim light to get a better look.
"I do, Severus," Dumbledore said, his tone edged with warning.
Snape's voice dropped further, his lips barely moving. "It seems... unlikely Black entered without inside help. I expressed my concerns when you appointed—"
"I do not believe a single person in this castle would have helped him," Dumbledore cut in, his tone firm. The conversation was over, and Snape knew it.
"I must inform the Dementors that our search is complete," Dumbledore added.
"Didn't they want to help, sir?" Percy asked.
"Oh, they did," Dumbledore said coolly. "But no Dementor will cross the threshold of this castle while I am Headmaster."
Percy looked taken aback.
Dumbledore strode out of the Hall, his movements swift and deliberate. Snape lingered for a moment, watching him go, his expression twisted with frustration before he, too, turned and left.
Hope glanced sideways. Harry, Ron, and Hermione all had their eyes open, reflecting the dim light of the enchanted ceiling.
Ron mouthed, What was all that about?
Hope had no idea. But as she stared up at the stars, she had a sinking feeling that whatever it was... it wasn't over.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
The school talked of nothing but Sirius Black for the next few days. Theories about how he had entered the castle grew wilder and wilder. Hannah Abbott from Hufflepuff spent most of their Herbology class dramatically insisting to anyone who'd listen that Black could turn into a flowering shrub, earning more than a few eye rolls.
Hope was also quite unnerved when she realized something had gone missing.
"I think Sirius Black stole my Cinderella book," Hope announced suddenly at lunch, her fork clattering against her plate.
Ron blinked at her, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. "Sirius Black snuck into the castle, and you're worried about a book?"
Hope shot him a glare. "It's my favorite book, Ron."
Hermione scoffed, barely looking up from her Potions essay. "That's ridiculous, Hope. You probably just misplaced it."
"I didn't," Hope insisted, frowning. "I know exactly where I left it. It was right on my bedside table, and now it's gone."
"Maybe someone borrowed it," Harry suggested, though even he didn't sound entirely convinced.
"Then someone would have asked me," Hope said. "It's just gone, and right on the night Sirius Black breaks in?" She shook her head. "That's not a coincidence."
Harry raised a brow. "What would he want with your book, though?"
Hope shrugged, her tone dry. "Maybe he needs some entertainment. It must be boring on the run."
Ron snorted, and then added, "Yeah, because that book is really going to keep him occupied. Professor Binns' lessons seem lively compared to it."
Hope shot him another glare.
Hermione, who had been reading, finally looked up with a dismissive wave. "He can't get into the girls' corridor anyway," she said, her voice laced with certainty. "Even if he did break in, those stairs would turn into a slide. There's no way he'd have gotten up."
"But what if he found a way around it?" Hope argued, "He's a dangerous criminal, Hermione. If he could break into the castle, who's to say he couldn't get up a staircase?"
"It'll turn up," Hermione said with a sure tone.
The Fat Lady's torn canvas was gone, replaced by Sir Cadogan and his fat grey pony. No one was happy about it. Sir Cadogan spent half his time challenging people to duels and the other half concocting ludicrously complex passwords that he changed at least twice a day.
"He's barking mad," Seamus complained to Percy. "Can't we get anyone else?"
"None of the other portraits wanted the job," Percy replied, "They're frightened after what happened to the Fat Lady. Sir Cadogan was the only one brave enough to volunteer."
But as irritating as Sir Cadogan was, he wasn't the biggest problem.
Harry was practically smothered under constant supervision. Teachers trailed after him, offering weak excuses to accompany him down corridors. Percy, acting like some self-appointed bodyguard, followed him everywhere. It was painfully obvious why. Everyone knew Black was after Harry. That part made sense.
What didn't make sense — at least to Hope — was why she was getting the same treatment.
Lupin had grown more protective than ever, lingering just a little longer after their lessons and finding reasons to walk her to her next class. And it wasn't just him. Hope had started noticing the subtle glances exchanged between the other professors. The way they seemed to always know where she was. They tried to be discreet, unlike with Harry. But that only made it worse.
At first, Hope told herself she was imagining it. Maybe her dad just wanted to spend some extra time with her. Maybe Flitwick didn't mean to hover near her desk for the entire Charms class. But it kept happening. And the more she noticed, the more frustrated she became.
She understood why they were watching Harry. Sirius Black was after him. But he wasn't after her. So why did it feel like every adult in the castle was waiting for something to happen? Why did it feel like they all knew something she didn't?
And then there was her dad.
Lupin meant well, of course. She knew that. But his constant concern was starting to grate on her nerves. He tried to mask it with his usual calm demeanor, but Hope could see right through him. Every time his eyes flickered with worry, every time he lingered just a moment too long before letting her go, it only added to the knot of frustration tightening in her chest.
Harry had even been pulled from evening Quidditch practice — though McGonagall, with her soft spot for the sport, reluctantly allowed Madam Hooch to supervise. Hope had half-expected to be sidelined too, but no one had said a word. Maybe they thought the presence of other students would be enough to keep her safe.
Or maybe they just didn't want her to realize how closely they were still watching.
It was unbearable. Every polite smile from a teacher, every reassuring nod, felt like a reminder that there was something she wasn't being told. And the longer it went on, the harder it became to ignore the sinking feeling that whatever it was — it wasn't good.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
The weather worsened steadily as the first Quidditch match drew closer. The Gryffindor team, undeterred, trained harder than ever under Madam Hooch's watchful eye. At their final practice before Saturday's match, Oliver Wood delivered some unwelcome news.
"We're not playing Slytherin!" he burst out, his face twisted in frustration. "Flint just told me. We're playing Hufflepuff instead."
"Why?" the team chorused, disbelief echoing through their voices.
"Flint's excuse is that their Seeker's arm is still injured," Wood growled, grinding his teeth. "But it's obvious. They don't want to play in this weather. Think it'll ruin their chances."
A low rumble of thunder echoed across the pitch, as though the sky itself was protesting. Strong winds had battered the castle all day, sheets of rain hammering against the windows.
"There's nothing wrong with Malfoy's arm!" Harry snapped, his frustration mirroring Wood's. "He's faking it!"
"I know that," Wood said bitterly. "But we can't prove it. And we've spent weeks practicing strategies for Slytherin. Hufflepuff's style is completely different. Especially now that Cedric Diggory's captain and Seeker—"
He didn't get to finish. Angelina and Katie suddenly burst into giggles.
"What?" Wood scowled, clearly annoyed by their laughter.
"They think he's fit," Hope supplied with a smirk, though her tone was light.
"Oh, like you don't," Katie teased, nudging her.
She risked a glance at George, hoping to share an amused eye-roll, but his expression caught her off guard. He wasn't frowning in frustration like Wood or scoffing like Fred. No, George's face was tight, his arms crossed over his chest, but his eyes were downcast, and his frown deepened with every mention of Cedric.
"He's tall, good-looking," Angelina said dreamily, her grin widening.
"Strong and silent," Katie added, sending them both into another fit of giggles.
"He's not silent with everyone, though, is he?" Angelina quipped, throwing a pointed look at Hope. "Don't you two talk all the time?" She waggled her eyebrows with a playful wink.
"Yeah," Hope nodded, brushing off the implication, though her cheeks warmed. "But we should really be worried. Hufflepuff's been practicing like mad. I sat in on one of their practices, and Cedric's really good—"
"Wait, you watched a Hufflepuff practice? And you're only mentioning this now?" Wood's voice pitched higher in alarm.
"Why were you at a Hufflepuff practice anyway?" Harry asked, eyeing her curiously.
"Well, Cedric invited me," Hope explained. "He knew I was bummed about not going to Hogsmeade, so—"
"He invited you to watch!" Angelina practically squealed.
George's scowl darkened, his arms tightening across his chest. Even Fred, usually one for teasing, scoffed at Angelina's excitement.
"Well, yeah—" Hope began, but George cut her off.
"He's not all that great," George muttered bitterly.
"I don't know why you're so worried, Oliver," Fred chimed in, trying to lighten the mood. "Hufflepuff's a pushover. Last time we played them, Harry caught the Snitch in five minutes, remember?"
"Cedric's an excellent Seeker," Hope retorted, her voice firm. "And he's been working really hard — they all have."
George's jaw clenched. He didn't respond, just turned away with a huff, his shoulders deflating. Hope's brows furrowed. His reaction confused her. What was his problem?
"We were playing in completely different conditions!" Wood bellowed, his eyes bulging slightly. "Hope's right! Diggory's put together a strong team! I was afraid you'd take it like this! We mustn't relax! We have to stay focused. Slytherin's trying to wrong-foot us. We can't let them win!"
"Oliver, calm down!" Fred said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "We're taking Hufflepuff very seriously. Seriously."
But as Wood launched into another passionate speech about tactics, Hope's thoughts drifted. She wasn't worried about the match, not really. Her mind was stuck on George. The way his frown had lingered. The way he couldn't seem to hide how much Cedric's name bothered him.
And for the life of her, she couldn't understand why.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
The day before the match, the winds reached a howling point and the rain fell harder than ever. It was so dark inside the corridors and classrooms that extra torches and lanterns were lit. The Slytherin team looked smugger than ever, and none more so than Malfoy.
"If only my arm was feeling a bit better," he sighed dramatically as the gale outside pounded the windows.
Hope rolled her eyes and ignored him. She couldn't waste time worrying about Malfoy when the match was so close. And she wasn't the only one. Wood was relentless, darting between classes to give her and Harry last-minute tips. The third time it happened, he was too focused on Harry to notice Hope slip away with Ron and Hermione, eager not to be late for Defense Against the Dark Arts.
But when they reached the classroom, they all came to an abrupt stop. Sitting at the teacher's desk, rather than Professor Lupin, was Snape.
Hope's stomach twisted. She'd known her father wouldn't be teaching today — the full moon had been the previous night, and he'd need rest — but why did it have to be Snape of all people?
As their classmates trickled in, murmuring with confusion, Ron leaned toward Hope. "Where's your dad?" he asked in a low voice.
"He's sick," Hope said simply, pulling out her book and parchment. She avoided Ron's concerned gaze, focusing instead on the dark figure at the front of the room.
"I will be teaching your lesson today, as your usual professor has found himself too ill to make it in," Snape announced, his black eyes gleaming as they flickered toward Hope. She felt her pulse quicken and twisted her quill nervously between her fingers.
"Sorry I'm late, Professor Lupin, I—" Harry burst through the door, but he stopped dead as soon as he saw who was sitting at the desk.
"This lesson began ten minutes ago, Potter," Snape sneered. "Ten points from Gryffindor. Sit down."
Harry didn't move. "Where's Professor Lupin?"
"He says he is feeling too ill to teach today," Snape said, his mouth curling into a twisted smile. "I believe I told you to sit down."
Harry's jaw tightened. "What's wrong with him?"
Snape's black eyes glittered. "Nothing life-threatening," he replied, though he looked as if he wished otherwise. "Five more points from Gryffindor, and if I have to ask you again, it will be fifty."
Without another word, Harry stalked to his seat, his face dark with anger.
"As I was saying before Potter interrupted," Snape went on, his voice dripping with contempt, "Professor Lupin has not left any record of the topics you have covered so far—"
"We've done Boggarts, Red Caps, Kappas, and Grindylows," Hermione said quickly, unable to help herself. "And we were just about to start—"
"Be quiet," Snape snapped. "I did not ask for information. I was merely commenting on Professor Lupin's lack of organization."
"He's the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we've ever had," Dean Thomas spoke up boldly.
Hope gave him a small smile, grateful for the support. Around the room, several students nodded in agreement.
A murmur of agreement swept through the room. Snape's lip curled. "You are easily satisfied," he drawled. "Lupin is hardly over-taxing you — I would expect first-years to be able to deal with Red Caps and Grindylows. Today, we shall discuss—"
He flipped through their textbook, stopping at the very last chapter. Hope's heart dropped.
"—Werewolves," Snape said.
Her blood ran cold. The quill she'd been fiddling with stilled in her hands. Her stomach twisted painfully. He was doing this on purpose.
"But, sir," Hermione blurted, "we're not supposed to do werewolves yet. We're due to start Hinkypunks—"
"Miss Granger," Snape interrupted, his voice dangerously calm, "I was under the impression that I was taking this lesson, not you. Turn to page three hundred and ninety-four."
The words struck Hope like a blow. Her hands shook slightly as she opened her book, but she forced herself to keep her face blank.
"Which of you can tell me how we distinguish between the werewolf and the true wolf?" Snape asked, his eyes gleaming as they roamed the classroom.
No one moved. Even Hermione, who usually had her hand up in an instant, hesitated.
Snape's gaze locked on Hope.
"What about you, Miss Lupin?" His voice was mockingly soft, the barest ghost of amusement on his lips. "Surely you can tell me how to distinguish between the werewolf and the true wolf."
Her mouth went dry. She could feel her classmates' eyes on her, but she kept her head down.
"I don't know," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.
Snape's smile widened. "Funny," he said coldly. "You seem rather quiet today, Miss Lupin. Though I must say, it's a welcome change from your usual, obnoxious outbursts."
Hermione, her hand still raised, glanced anxiously at Hope noticing how pale and uneasy she looked.
"Anyone?" Snape sneered, though he made no move to call on Hermione. "Are you telling me Professor Lupin hasn't even taught you the basic distinction between—"
"We told you," Parvati cut in, her voice tense, "we haven't got as far as werewolves yet."
"Silence!" Snape snarled, his eyes flashing. "Well, well, well, I never thought I'd meet a third-year class who wouldn't even recognize a werewolf when they saw one. I shall be informing Professor Dumbledore how very behind you all are."
"Please, sir," Hermione said desperately, "the werewolf differs from the true wolf in several small ways. The snout of the werewolf—"
"That is the second time you've spoken out of turn, Miss Granger," Snape interrupted icily. "Five more points from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all."
Hermione's cheeks flushed red. She lowered her hand and stared at her desk, blinking back tears. The class collectively tensed, glaring at Snape. Even those who had teased Hermione for her know-it-all tendencies were furious.
Ron was the first to break the silence. "You asked us a question and she knows the answer!" he snapped. "Why ask if you don't want to be told?"
The room froze.
Snape stalked toward Ron, his expression dangerous. "Detention, Weasley," he said silkily. "And if I ever hear you criticize the way I teach a class again, you will be very sorry indeed."
No one dared speak for the rest of the lesson. They sat in tense silence, scribbling notes on werewolves while Snape prowled between the desks, sniping at their previous work.
"Very poorly explained... That is incorrect, the Kappa is more commonly found in Mongolia... Professor Lupin gave this eight out of ten? I wouldn't have given it three..."
When the bell rang, the class practically bolted for the door, but Snape's voice rang out once more.
"You will each write an essay, to be handed in to me, on the ways to recognize and kill werewolves. I want two rolls of parchment on the subject, by Monday morning. It's time somebody took this class in hand. Weasley, stay behind. We need to arrange your detention."
Hope, Harry and Hermione left the room with the rest of the class, who waited until they were well out of earshot, then burst into a furious tirade about Snape.
"I can't believe him!" Dean fumed. "Lupin's one of the best teachers we've ever had! He's completely mental."
"I bet he enjoys it," Seamus scowled. "He probably gets a kick out of being a miserable git."
"I swear," Harry muttered, "one of these days I'm going to chuck a cauldron at his head. That'd give him something to be miserable about."
"Insufferable," Parvati added, still red with anger. "And what he said to Hermione—"
"Forget about me. The way he talks about Professor Lupin is completely unprofessional. And right in front of Hope too," Hermione said, frowning.
"I'm fine," Hope said quickly, though the words came out a little too quickly.
Harry shot her a concerned glance, his brow furrowed. "He's a git, Hope. He's just—"
"Snape," she finished bitterly. "Yeah, I know."
"Snape's never acted like this with any of the other Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers," Harry sadded. "Even if he wanted the job. Why's he got it in for Lupin? You think it's because of the Boggart?"
"Dad said they went to school together," Hope answered, her voice quieter. "They didn't get along."
"Your dad went to school with Snape?" Harry blinked.
Hope simply nodded.
"I really hope Professor Lupin gets better soon," Hermione sighed. Dreading another Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson with Snape.
A few minutes later, Ron came storming up to them, practically vibrating with rage.
"D'you know what that son of a—"
"Ron!" Hermione cut in sharply.
Ron rolled his eyes. "He's making me scrub out the bedpans in the hospital wing. Without magic!" His fists clenched. "Why couldn't Black have hidden in Snape's office, eh? He could've finished him off for us!"
Without a word, After a while Hope broke away from the group, wandering through the corridors. Her mind elsewhere, her thoughts jumbled.
She couldn't believe Snape. How dare he? To hint at what her father was — to try and expose him — all over some school days grudge. He knew how hard it was for werewolves, how difficult it was for them to get jobs, to have a life. The prejudice. The way people talked about them — even her friends sometimes, without thinking.
Her father had been happier here at Hogwarts than she'd seen him in years. And Snape wanted to rip that away. What gave him the right to treat people like that? Was he even capable of being decent? What had happened to him to make him so... awful?
Lost in thought, she barely noticed the figure stepping into her path.
Thud.
"Oh—sorry!" Hope stumbled back, her bag slipping from her shoulder. Heat crept up her neck as she blinked up in embarrassment.
"No harm done," Cedric Diggory said, his brow slightly raised. He studied her for a moment, his head tilted curiously. "You alright?"
"I'm fine," she replied quickly.
"You sure?" His expression softened, though a teasing glint appeared in his eye. "Or are you just worried Hufflepuff's going to give Gryffindor a proper thrashing this weekend?"
That pulled a small smile from her. "In your dreams, Diggory."
"I'm just saying, you know we've been practicing." He held up his hands innocently, his grin widening.
"I'd hope so. You're going to need it."
He laughed, shaking his head. As he passed her, he gave her shoulder a quick, friendly squeeze. "See you on the pitch. Try not to fall off your broom."
"You wish," Hope called after him.
She shook her head with a small huff, still smiling faintly when a voice spoke from behind her.
"What was that all about?"
She turned to find George Weasley standing there, hands stuffed into his pockets. His ginger hair was slightly tousled. She loved when his hair looked like that. Realizing she'd been staring a second too long, she cleared her throat and straightened slightly.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"Diggory," George said, nodding toward the now-empty corridor.
"I bumped into him," she explained, frowning. "What is it with you and Cedric?"
"What do you mean?" he questioned, a little too innocently.
"Lately, anytime he's brought up, your face goes all sour, like you've just had an Acid Pop."
"It does not," George scoffed, though the redness creeping up his ears said otherwise.
"Does too."
"Well, it's... he's... he's the enemy." George gestured vaguely.
Hope blinked. "The enemy?"
"You heard me," he mumbled.
She rolled her eyes. "You sound like Oliver."
"Oliver's got a point. First, it's friendly hallway chats. Next thing you know, we're losing the Cup."
"That's a bit dramatic," she teased, though George didn't look amused.
"C'mon, Weasley," she said with a grin, stepping closer. She gave his arm a playful shove, lingering longer than she meant. "I promise not to defect to Hufflepuff before the match."
"You'd better not," George grumbled. But even as he spoke, the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. And though he wouldn't admit it, her hand still resting against his arm wasn't something he minded one bit.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Hope's tiny legs stumbled as her mother dragged her through the cottage door, the slam echoing through the small house. The evening sky had darkened, casting long shadows that clung to the corners of the room. Arabella's face was pale, her light eyes wide with fear. She didn't speak, only pulled Hope along, her grip tight and trembling.
"Upstairs, sweetheart. Quickly," Arabella urged, her voice low but urgent. She practically carried Hope up the creaking staircase, each step loud in the tense silence. The air in the house felt heavy, thick with something Hope couldn't name, but it twisted her stomach.
They reached her small bedroom, the familiar stuffed animals scattered across the bed offering no comfort. Arabella knelt, cupping Hope's face in her trembling hands.
"Listen to me, darling. You stay here. Hide. No matter what you hear, you don't come out. Do you understand?" Her voice cracked, but she tried to smile, smoothing a stray lock of Hope's hair.
Hope's lip quivered, confusion swirling in her chest. "Mummy, what's happening?"
"Just promise me, Hope. Promise you'll stay hidden."
Hope nodded, her small heart pounding painfully against her ribs.
Arabella kissed her forehead, lingering for a moment, then pulled away. She stood and turned toward the door, her movements quick but hesitant. Just as she began to pull the door shut, a thunderous bang echoed through the house, shaking the walls. The sound of splintering wood followed — the front door, Hope realized. Her heart pounded, her breath catching as fear crawled up her spine.
Arabella froze. The shadows in the dim hallway seemed to stretch and flicker. Then came the footsteps. Heavy, hurried, and unrelenting, they thudded against the floorboards below, ascending the stairs with terrible purpose.
Hope scrambled under her bed, clutching the worn quilt hanging from the sides. She pressed her hands over her mouth, her tiny chest rising and falling in quick, shaky breaths.
Through the narrow gap, she could see the sliver of the hallway beyond her door. Her mother stood with her back straight, hands clenched at her sides. Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs, clumsy and hurried.
The footsteps grew louder, closer. Hope's eyes burned with unshed tears. Her mother's voice rang out, shaking but defiant.
"I was right. It was you."
"Bella—" he choked out.
"Don't call me that!" Arabella spat, her voice sharp with a fury Hope had never heard before. "You don't get to call me that anymore!"
"Please—just listen!" He begged, desperation twisting his voice.
"How could you?" Her voice wavered, thick with something between rage and heartbreak. "How could you do this?"
He opened his mouth to respond, but his words faltered as they escaped. "You have to understand. What was I to do when he asked—"
"Don't you dare," she cut him off, her wand trembling in her grip, the muscles in her arm strained as if holding back everything she wanted to unleash. "Don't you dare stand there and act like you had no other option."
"I didn't!" he snapped, his face contorting with panic. "They gave me no choice, Arabella!"
"There's always a choice!" she spat, her words striking like a whip, sharp and unforgiving.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, filling the silence between them. Hope's tiny hands pressed into the cool wood floor, nails digging into the cracks, desperately trying to keep herself quiet. Her body felt frozen, every muscle urging her to move, to run—but she couldn't. She stayed, her chest tight, unable to look away.
"I never believed it," Arabella's voice softened, but the venom in it still cut deep. "What they wrote in the papers... it just didn't make any sense. But this..."
The man stumbled forward, his knees hitting the floor with a sickening thud. His hands trembled as they reached toward Arabella, pleading.
"Please, Bella. My old friend." His voice cracked. "You have to believe me."
Arabella's eyes narrowed, and Hope felt a shiver run through her spine. She had never heard her mother speak with such cold, biting disdain. "You're pathetic," Arabella hissed. "A pathetic, sad little man."
"Bella—" he whimpered, his voice a broken sob.
"Don't you dare," she snarled, her wand raised higher, her grip tight and unwavering.
Little Hope shuffled further beneath the bed, but the sound of the floor creaking beneath her made her freeze. Her breath caught in her throat. She didn't dare move, didn't dare make a sound.
Arabella's eyes flickered toward the door, just for a split second. Just a split second—that's all it took.
There was a sudden rustle.
Hope's eyes widened in terror as the man's hand shot out, swift and sure. In the blink of an eye, Arabella's wand was torn from her grasp, now pointed directly at her.
Hope woke with a start, gasping as she shot up in bed. Her breathing was ragged, and she wiped the sweat off her forehead. It was still pitch dark outside—too early. She fumbled for her alarm clock, squinting at the numbers. It was four a.m.
She sighed, flopping back onto her pillow, trying to ignore the rumble of thunder outside. But after a while, sleep just wouldn't come. No matter how much she turned over or pulled the blankets tighter, the nightmare wouldn't fade.
Finally, she gave up. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, grabbed her swiftstick, and quietly slipped out of the dorm. The common room was peaceful, the only sound coming from the crackling fire. Hope sank into one of the chairs, staring into the flames, hoping the warmth would push the nightmare out of her mind.
She turned her head at the sound of footsteps, seeing Harry step down the steps of the boys dorm.
"What are you doing up?" She asked.
Harry blinked at her, startled. "Peeves woke me up," He yawned.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "And you?"
"Nightmare," she muttered, not really wanting to get into it.
Harry sat down beside her, a little closer than normal. "You've been having a lot of those lately."
Hope nodded, her fingers absently tracing the smooth wood of her swiftstick. "Yeah... same one. Ever since the dementor attack on the train."
"What have the nightmares been about?" Harry asked gently, his tone soft, like he was treading carefully.
Hope sighed, "It's about my mum. The night she..." Her voice caught, and she couldn't bring herself to finish.
Harry didn't need her to. He just looked at her with that quiet understanding. She appreciated it more than she could say.
He cleared his throat. "You know, I think Wood would understand if you pulled out of the match—"
Hope shot him a look. "No, he wouldn't."
Harry let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, you're right. He wouldn't."
Hope sighed and leaned back in her chair, staring at the fire. "I want to play. I need something to take my mind off... all of this."
She looked over at Harry, changing the subject. "You nervous?"
He stared out the window for a moment, watching the storm outside. "A little," he admitted. "Cedric definitely has the advantage."
Hope raised an eyebrow. "How's that?"
"Bigger guy," Harry said, grumbling under his breath. "He won't be as easily blown off course."
They spent the next couple of hours just sitting in silence, every now and then getting up to stop Crookshanks from sneaking up the boys' staircase again. It was quiet, but it helped. When the first light of dawn started creeping through the windows, they finally stood and made their way to breakfast.
As they passed Sir Cadogan's painting, the knight was in full dramatic form. "Stand and fight, you mangy cur!" he shouted.
Hope rolled her eyes, scrunching her face in annoyance.
"Oh, shut up," Harry yawned.
In the Great Hall Harry revived a bit over a large bowl of porridge, And hope was onto her second helping of eggs when the rest of the team had turned up.
"It's going to be a tough one," Wood said. He wasn't eating anything, his focus entirely on the storm outside.
"Stop worrying, Oliver," Hope said, taking a bite of bacon. "We don't mind a bit of rain. It'll be a nice challenge."
But it wasn't just a bit of rain. As Hope stepped outside, her breath caught at the force of the wind. The storm had picked up speed, the sky was dark and heavy with clouds, and the rain came down in sheets. The wind howled, making her wish she'd packed an extra cloak.
She looked around, spotting the other students huddled together, all running toward the Quidditch pitch with their heads bowed, trying to keep their umbrellas from flipping inside out. The excitement of the crowd was still there, but it was overshadowed by the storm's fury.
As they reached the changing room, Hope's lips pouted, her mind drifting. She'd been hoping her dad would make it to the first game, see her in action. But the full moon had drained him, and now the storm was making it even harder for him to come. The last thing he needed was to be out in the middle of all this wind and rain — he might collapse from the strain.
The team changed into their scarlet robes and waited for Wood's usual pre-match pep talk, but it didn't come. He tried to speak several times, made an odd gulping noise, then shook his head hopelessly and beckoned them to follow him.
The wind was so strong that they staggered sideways as they walked out onto the pitch. If the crowd was cheering, they couldn't hear it over the fresh rolls of thunder. Hope looked over at Harry. Rain was splattering over his glasses. How on earth was he going to see the Snitch in this?
The Hufflepuff team approached from the opposite side, their canary-yellow robes barely visible through the rain. The captains met at the center of the pitch, shaking hands. Diggory smiled at Wood, but Wood now looked as though he had lockjaw and merely nodded.
Hope couldn't hear what Madam Hooch was saying over the wind, but she saw her mouth the words, "Mount your brooms." She pulled her foot out of the mud with a squelch and swung her leg over her Swiftstick. The wind howled louder as Madam Hooch blew her whistle — a sharp, distant sound.
Hope surged into the air, but her broom swerved beneath her as the wind caught it. The storm was far worse than anything she'd faced in practice. She squinted through the rain, trying to focus on the game. She'd played in the rain before, but never in a storm like this. The gusts were relentless.
The crowd's cheers were muffled, barely audible over the thunder and howling wind. It was as though the storm had swallowed the noise of the stands whole. She caught a glimpse of Harry, hovering in front of her, his glasses misted over with rain. He had a determined expression, but it was hard to imagine how he'd spot the Snitch in this weather. Hope could barely see more than a few feet ahead of her.
The game had started well enough. Gryffindor was already fifty points up, having scored a quick goal early in the match, but it was clear that the real challenge would be staying in the air long enough to finish it. Hope gritted her teeth as she pushed her broom forward, trying to catch up with Katie, who had the Quaffle.
With a flash of lightning, Hope heard Madam Hooch's whistle again. The rain intensified, and the whole team splashed down into the mud in a desperate attempt to regroup.
"I called for a timeout!" Wood yelled, his voice nearly lost in the storm. "Come on, under here—"
The team huddled together under a large umbrella, but the wind whipped it around, making it difficult to keep any of them dry. Hope wiped her face with the back of her sleeve, still trying to clear the fog in her head.
"What's the score?" Harry asked, pulling off his glasses and rubbing them furiously on his robes.
"We're fifty points up," Wood said, glancing at the scoreboard. "But unless we get the Snitch soon, we'll be playing into the night."
Hope glanced at Harry, but his frustration was clear. "I've got no chance with these on," he muttered, his glasses fogging up again.
At that very moment, Hermione appeared at his shoulder, holding her cloak over her head and — inexplicably — beaming.
"I've had an idea, Harry! Give me your glasses, quick!"
Harry handed them over without question. Hope watched as Hermione tapped them with her wand, speaking a word Hope didn't catch.
"Impervius!" Hermione said.
She handed them back to Harry with a triumphant smile. "There! They'll repel the water now."
Wood's face lit up with relief. "Brilliant!" he called hoarsely after Hermione as she vanished back into the crowd. "Okay, team, let's go for it!"
Hope nodded, feeling the adrenaline rush back. Her grip tightened on her broom as they took off again. The wind roared in her ears, and the rain was so thick that it was almost impossible to see.
There was another clap of thunder, followed immediately by forked lightning. And then something shifted. As she flew across the pitch, her heart began to race for a different reason. An eerie silence was falling across the stadium. The wind, though as strong as ever, seemed to forget to roar. It was as though someone had turned off the sound — as though Hope had gone suddenly deaf.
And then a horribly familiar wave of cold swept over her. Inside her, the chill crept like ice, constricting her chest. Hope glanced up, horrified. There were dozens — no, hundreds — of Dementors. It was as though freezing water was rising in her chest, cutting at her insides.
And then she heard it again... the shouting. The shouting from the train. The shouting from her dreams.
"Please, Bella. My old friend. You have to believe me."
"You're pathetic. A pathetic, sad little man."
Her breath caught in her throat. Her mind felt numb, like it had frozen from the cold. She looked at her surroundings, but everything was hazy, like a fog was overtaking her senses. Hope's grip faltered, and the world spun around her. The storm, the game — it all blurred together in a haze. A wave of dizziness hit her, her vision clouding over. She could barely keep herself upright.
"Bella—"
"Don't you dare."
And then she was falling, darkness closing in on her vision.
But then — warmth.
A strong hand seized her arm. There was a jolt as she was yanked upward, the air rushing past her once more. George. His face was tight with strain, the muscles in his arms trembling as he held her.
"Got you!" His voice was raw, barely audible.
Fred swooped in beside them, his broom swerving as he steadied Hope. She felt George wince, his shoulder twisted unnaturally, but he didn't let go.
"Stay with me, Hope," George murmured, his voice strained. "I've got you."
The storm raged on, but while the cold had begun to lift. Hope's world spun, everything still feeling hazy.
Another flash of lightning lit up the sky, and Hope's consciousness began to slip away.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Hope groaned as she stirred awake, her head aching. Blinking a few times, she adjusted to the bright lights of the hospital wing. The first thing she saw was George's relieved smile as her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the light as a wave of soreness washed over her.
She frowned in confusion, taking in her surroundings. The entire Gryffindor Quidditch team—minus Oliver—was gathered around her, all spattered with mud from head to toe. Ron and Hermione were there, too, looking as though they had just climbed out of a lake. Hope turned her head and felt her stomach drop as she saw Harry lying unconscious in the bed beside her.
"What happened?" she asked, her voice hoarse.
"Oh, I was so worried," Hermione exclaimed tearily, throwing her arms around Hope in a tight hug.
"You gave us a scare, that's what," Angelina added, arms crossed but her expression filled with concern.
Hope blinked, her mind piecing everything together. A chill ran down her spine as the memory settled in. The cold. The shouts. That awful, bone-deep dread.
"Dementors," she murmured.
Katie nodded grimly. "You fell off your broom, but luckily, George was there to catch you."
"Hey, I helped," Fred interjected.
Hope turned to George, her gaze locking onto his. "You caught me?" she asked, softly.
George gave a bashful smile, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, it was just lucky—"
"Lucky? It was bloody brilliant," Ron cut in. "You should've seen it. You were falling, and George just—bam—caught you like it was nothing."
Hope's gaze remained fixed on George, her heart fluttering. "Are you okay? Did you get hurt catching me?" she asked, the worry evident in her voice.
George quickly shook his head. "No—no, I'm fine. Madam Pomfrey fixed me up. It's nothing." His eyes searched hers. "Are you okay?"
Hope nodded, though the lingering ache in her body said otherwise. Still, it was nothing compared to the warmth spreading through her chest. "Thank you," she said softly.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. George's hand lingered on the edge of her bed, his thumb brushing against the blanket absentmindedly. Hope's heart thudded, and the air between them shifted, an unspoken exchange passing between them. The rest of the team watched the interaction with raised eyebrows, but neither Hope nor George seemed to notice.
Fred cleared his throat dramatically. "I'd like to remind everyone that I helped."
Hope rolled her eyes but smiled. "Thank you too, Fred."
Then, she turned her attention to Harry.
"He wasn't as lucky," Fred admitted.
"Well, he was lucky the ground was so soft," Ron added.
"I thought he was dead for sure," Angelina said with a shudder.
"But he didn't even break his glasses," Katie pointed out.
Hope's gaze lingered on Harry, worry creeping in as she studied his pale face.
Harry stirred. The voices around him faded into a muddled blur. His mind swam in cold, lingering echoes—hooded black figures, the screaming...
His eyes snapped open.
"Harry!" Fred exclaimed. "How're you feeling?"
Harry sat up so suddenly that everyone gasped. "What happened?"
"You fell off," Fred said. "Must've been—what—fifty feet?"
"We thought you'd died," Angelina said, her hands still trembling slightly.
Hermione made a small, squeaky noise, her bloodshot eyes welling up.
"But the match," Harry said urgently. "What happened?"
Hope blinked. The match. She had completely forgotten. "Are we having a replay?" she asked, looking around, hopeful.
Silence.
No one answered. A heavy silence settled over them, and Hope's heart sank.
"We didn't... lose?" Harry asked, his eyes pleading.
George sighed. "Diggory got the Snitch. Just after you fell. He didn't realize what had happened. When he looked back and saw you on the ground, he tried to call it off. Wanted a re-match. But they won fair and square... even Wood admits it."
"Where's Wood?" Harry asked suddenly, realizing their captain was absent.
"Still in the showers," Fred said. "We think he's trying to drown himself."
Hope deflated but said nothing, not wanting to make Harry feel worse.
Harry dropped his face into his hands, gripping his hair. Fred clapped a hand on his shoulder, shaking him roughly.
"C'mon, Harry, you've never missed the Snitch before."
"There had to be one time you didn't get it," George added.
"It's not over yet," Fred reminded them. "We lost by a hundred points, right? So if Hufflepuff loses to Ravenclaw and we beat Ravenclaw and Slytherin..."
"Hufflepuff'll have to lose by at least two hundred points," George calculated.
"But if they beat Ravenclaw..." Fred trailed off.
"No way, Ravenclaw are too good. But if Slytherin loses against Hufflepuff..." George mused.
"It all depends on the points—a margin of a hundred either way—" Katie chimed in.
Harry lay there, silent. It didn't matter. They had lost. For the first time ever, he had lost a Quidditch match.
After about ten minutes, Madam Pomfrey bustled over. "Alright, that's enough. You lot need to leave and let them rest."
Fred clapped Harry's shoulder one last time. "We'll come see you later. Don't beat yourself up, mate, you're still the best Seeker we've ever had."
George lingered next to Hope, hesitating. Then, without a word, he reached for her hand and gave it a small squeeze.
Hope's heart flipped. She smiled as he turned to leave, her fingers still tingling from his touch. Despite the soreness, despite everything, the fluttering in her chest lingered.
The team trooped out, trailing mud behind them. Madam Pomfrey shut the door with a disapproving look before turning to Ron and Hermione.
Ron and Hermione moved closer to Harry and Hope's beds.
"Dumbledore was really angry," Hermione said, her voice shaking. "I've never seen him like that before. He ran onto the pitch as you fell, waved his wand, and you sort of slowed down before you hit the ground."
"Luckily, Hope wasn't as high up, but George—I've never seen him move so fast. As soon as she slipped off, he caught her. Mangled his shoulder in the process," Ron added.
Hope felt her cheeks warm.
"Then Dumbledore whirled his wand at the Dementors. Shot silver stuff at them. They left the stadium straight away... he was furious they'd come onto the grounds, we heard him—" Hermione said.
"Then he magicked you onto a stretcher," Ron added. "And walked up to the castle with you floating on it. Everyone thought you were..." He trailed off.
"Fred and George flew you down, Hope, before Professor McGonagall magicked you onto a stretcher as well and followed Dumbledore," Hermione explained.
Harry's face tightened. He glanced between them anxiously. "Did someone get my Nimbus?"
Ron and Hermione exchanged a nervous look.
"Er—" Ron began.
"What?" Harry pressed.
"Well... when you fell off, it got blown away," Hermione said hesitantly.
"And?" Harry demanded.
"And it hit—it hit—oh, Harry—it hit the Whomping Willow," Hermione admitted.
Harry's jaw dropped. A frown curved at his lips. "And?"
Ron swallowed hard. "Well, you know the Whomping Willow... it doesn't like being hit."
"Professor Flitwick brought it back just before you woke up," Hermione said in a small voice.
Slowly, she reached down, pulled a bag into her lap, and turned it upside down. A dozen splintered pieces of wood and twigs tumbled onto the bed—the only remains of Harry's faithful Nimbus 2000.
Hope stared at the wrecked broom in shock. She wanted to ask about her own Swiftstick but thought better of it. Now wasn't the time—not with Harry looking utterly devastated.