40. Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw
For what must have been the hundredth time that year, Ron and Hermione weren’t speaking to each other. But this time, it really looked like the end of their friendship. It appeared as though Crookshanks had eaten Scabbers, and both were so furious that Hope couldn’t imagine how they’d ever make up.
Ron was livid. Hermione had never taken Crookshanks’s attempts to eat Scabbers seriously, hadn’t bothered to watch him more closely, and now she had the nerve to suggest Scabbers might be hiding under the boys’ beds. Hermione, on the other hand, stubbornly insisted that Ron had no proof her cat had eaten his rat, that the ginger hairs found near the scene could’ve been there since Christmas, and that Ron had always hated Crookshanks since the day he’d landed on Ron’s head at the Magical Menagerie.
As much as Hope liked the scrunchy-faced cat, even she had to admit it seemed obvious Crookshanks had eaten Scabbers. But whenever she or Harry tried to point that out, Hermione would lose her temper with them, too.
"Okay, side with Ron! I knew you would!" Hermione’s voice rang out, sharp and wounded. "First the Firebolt, now Scabbers — everything’s my fault, isn’t it?"
"Hermione, that’s not what I meant—" Hope started, her voice softening.
"Just leave me alone. I’ve got a lot of work to do!" Hermione cut her off, her words like a wall snapping into place.
Ron had taken the loss of his rat especially hard.
"Come on, Ron, you were always saying how boring Scabbers was," Fred said bracingly. "And he’s been off-color for ages — wasting away. It was probably better for him to snuff it quickly. One swallow — he probably didn’t feel a thing."
"Fred!" Ginny snapped, glaring at him.
"All he did was eat and sleep, Ron," George chimed in.
"Be sensitive," Hope scolded, swatting George lightly on the shoulder.
"That was me being sensitive!" George rubbed his shoulder with a slight pout. "He was twelve years old, for Merlin’s sake!"
"He bit Goyle for us once!" Ron said miserably. "Remember, Harry?"
"Yeah, that’s true," Harry nodded.
"His finest hour," Fred said, failing to hide a grin. "Let the scar on Goyle’s finger stand as a lasting tribute to his memory. Oh, come on, Ron, get yourself down to Hogsmeade and buy a new rat. What’s the point of moaning?"
In a last-ditch attempt to lift Ron’s spirits, Harry convinced him to come along to the Gryffindor team’s final practice before the Ravenclaw match, promising him a go on the Firebolt once they were done.
Though Hope tried to stay cheerful, her stomach twisted every time she saw the sleek broom. Harry’s Firebolt was beautiful — faster than she could have ever imagined. She had one too, thanks to her father, but she’d never even gotten to fly it.
Still, the idea of Ron’s excitement helped.
"Brilliant! Can I try and shoot a few goals on it?" Ron’s grin, fleeting as it was, made the trip to the Quidditch pitch feel a little lighter.
Madam Hooch was already there, overseeing practice. She inspected the Firebolt with barely contained admiration.
"Look at the balance on it! If the Nimbus series has a fault, it’s the slight list to the tail-end — they tend to develop a drag after a few years. But this — oh, they’ve updated the handle, a bit slimmer than the Cleansweeps. It reminds me of the old Silver Arrows — a pity they stopped making them, I learned to fly on one!"
She went on, and on, until Wood coughed.
"Er, Madam Hooch? Is it okay if Harry has the Firebolt back? Only we need to practice..."
"Oh! Right. Here you are, Potter." She handed it back, reluctantly. "I’ll sit over here with Weasley."
As she and Ron moved to the stands, Wood gathered the Gryffindor team for final instructions.
"Harry, I’ve just found out who Ravenclaw’s playing as Seeker. It’s Cho Chang. She’s a fourth-year, and she’s pretty good. I was hoping she wouldn’t be fit, but she’s recovered. On the other hand, she rides a Comet Two Sixty, which will look like a joke next to the Firebolt."
Harry’s broom gleamed in the afternoon sun. The excitement bubbling in his chest was undeniable.
At long last, he mounted the Firebolt and kicked off the ground.
It was better than he’d ever dreamed. The broom responded to the lightest touch, like it could sense his thoughts. It sped across the pitch, the stands blurring into streaks of green and grey. Harry twisted into a sharp turn, making Angelina shriek in surprise. He dove in a controlled arc, his toes grazing the grass before soaring high into the sky once more.
"Harry, I’m letting the Snitch out!" Wood called.
Harry twisted midair, outracing a Bludger as it shot toward the goalposts. He spotted the Snitch darting behind Wood. Ten seconds later, it was clutched tightly in his hand.
The team erupted in cheers. Harry grinned, releasing the Snitch and giving it another head start. He wove through his teammates, looping around Katie to snatch the Snitch again. The Firebolt moved like an extension of himself.
"I can’t see what’s going to stop us tomorrow!" Wood exclaimed, beaming. "Not unless—Harry, you’ve sorted your Dementor problem, haven’t you?"
"Yeah," Harry replied, though the memory of his weak Patronus nagged at him.
"The Dementors won’t show up again, Oliver. Dumbledore’d lose his mind," Fred said confidently.
"Let’s hope not," Wood muttered. "Good work, everyone. Get back to the Tower and turn in early."
"I’m staying out for a bit," Harry said. "Ron wants a go on the Firebolt."
As the team headed off, Harry jogged over to Ron, who hopped over the barrier, his excitement clear. Madam Hooch had nodded off in the stands.
Hope trailed behind the others, her shoulders slumped. She didn’t even glance at the Firebolt. George, noticing her gloom, slowed his pace to walk beside her.
"You alright?" George asked.
"No," Hope muttered. "Is it wrong that I hate Harry and his stupid Firebolt right now?"
George chuckled. "Maybe just a little," he teased, holding his fingers close together.
"You’re right," Hope sighed. "I should focus all my hate on my dad."
"I think he believes he’s doing the right thing," George offered gently.
"Well, he’s not," she shot back. "And why are you taking his side?"
"I’m not!" George defended. "Parents just... do weird stuff sometimes. Think they know best and all. I know my mum does, that’s for sure."
Hope stopped, frustration simmering beneath the surface. "It’s just so fast, and sleek, and pretty. I never even got to ride it."
George opened his mouth to respond, but Hope dropped her head dramatically onto his shoulder with a huff. His face reddened as he awkwardly cleared his throat.
"You know," George said, his grin creeping back, "I think I know just the thing to make you feel better."
"Nothing can make me feel better," Hope mumbled into his shoulder.
"Really? Not even finding some unsuspecting Slytherins to jelly-leg jinx?" George’s grin turned mischievous.
Hope lifted her head, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Okay. Maybe that."
"That’s the spirit!" George laughed, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the dungeons.
Hope smiled down at their interlocked hands, trying her best to ignore the fluttering in her stomach.
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Hope went down to breakfast the next morning with Katie and Angelina. Soon after, Harry arrived, flanked by the rest of the boys from his dormitory, practically guarding the Firebolt like it was some kind of priceless treasure.
As envious as Hope was of Harry’s broom, she couldn’t deny the satisfaction she felt seeing the Slytherin team’s stunned expressions.
"Did you see his face?" Ron said gleefully, shooting a glance back at Malfoy. "He can’t believe it! This is brilliant!"
Wood, too, was basking in the reflected glory of the Firebolt.
"Put it here, Harry," he said, carefully placing the broom in the middle of the table, its name prominently facing upward. Before long, students from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff began wandering over to take a closer look.
Cedric stopped by, clapping Harry on the back. "That’s a brilliant replacement for your Nimbus," he said, clearly impressed.
Even Penelope Clearwater, Percy’s Ravenclaw girlfriend, asked eagerly, "Could I hold it for a second?"
"Now, now, Penny, no sabotage!" Percy called out cheerfully as Penelope examined the broom. "Penelope and I have a bet — ten Galleons on the match!"
Penelope placed the Firebolt back down, thanked Harry, and returned to her table.
"Harry, make sure you win," Percy whispered urgently, leaning in. "I haven’t got ten Galleons. Yes, I’m coming, Penny!" He bustled off, grabbing a piece of toast on his way.
"There’s no way we’re losing with this," Dean said excitedly.
"Merlin knows we could use the points," Hermione added, shooting a meaningful look at Hope and George.
"I regret nothing," Hope replied, taking a smug bite of toast.
"The two of you lost us forty points," Hermione reminded her.
"It was worth it for the look on Nott’s face," George chuckled, leaning over to give Hope a high five.
"Sure you can manage that broom, Potter?" A cold, drawling voice cut through the chatter.
Draco Malfoy had arrived, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering behind him.
"Yeah, reckon so," Harry answered casually.
"Plenty of special features, hasn’t it?" Malfoy’s eyes gleamed with malice. "Shame it doesn’t come with a parachute — in case you get too close to a Dementor."
Crabbe and Goyle sniggered.
"Pity you can’t attach an extra arm to yours, Malfoy," Harry shot back. "Then it could catch the Snitch for you."
The Gryffindor table erupted into laughter. Malfoy’s pale eyes narrowed as he stalked away, his team huddling around him, no doubt demanding confirmation that Harry’s broom really was a Firebolt.
At a quarter to eleven, the Gryffindor team set off for the changing rooms. The weather couldn’t have been more different from their match against Hufflepuff. It was a clear, cool day with only a slight breeze — perfect conditions for Quidditch.
Despite knowing she wouldn't be flying on a Firebolt, Hope felt that familiar buzz of excitement that came with every match. The adrenaline, the roaring crowd, the rush of the game. It never failed to stir something in her.
Inside the changing room, she pulled off her black school robes and tucked her wand into her bag. For a moment, she considered slipping it under her shirt like Harry, but without a working Patronus, it seemed pointless.
Then her thoughts drifted. Her father.
As furious as she was, a part of her couldn’t help but hope he’d be in the stands. He had never seen her on the pitch before.
They walked out onto the pitch to deafening applause. The Ravenclaw team, dressed in blue, was already gathered in the center. Their Seeker, Cho Chang, stood slightly apart from her teammates. She was shorter than Harry by about a head, and despite his nerves, Harry clearly noticed how pretty she was.
Hope didn’t miss the blush creeping up his cheeks. Smirking, she gave him a pointed look.
"Wood, Davies, shake hands," Madam Hooch instructed briskly.
Oliver and the Ravenclaw captain clasped hands firmly, and the crowd’s cheers roared once more. The match was about to begin.
"Mount your brooms... on my whistle... three — two — one!"
The whistle blew, and Hope kicked off from the ground. The wind whipped past her face as her Swiftstick shot upward, not the sleekest or fastest broom on the pitch, but she knew how to work it. The air roared past her ears as she soared higher, scanning the field.
Hope’s heart pounded. This was it. The roar of the crowd, the rush of the wind — she couldn’t get enough of it. Even with the pressure, she felt alive up here.
"And they’re off!" Lee Jordan’s voice rang out across the stadium. "And the big excitement this match is, of course, the Firebolt — the broom Harry Potter is flying for Gryffindor. According to Which Broomstick, the Firebolt’s already the broom of choice for the national teams at this year’s World Championship —"
"Jordan, would you mind telling us what’s actually happening in the match?" Professor McGonagall’s sharp voice cut through.
"Right you are, Professor! Just providing a little background information. The Firebolt, incidentally, also has a built-in auto-brake and —"
"Jordan!"
"Okay, okay! Gryffindor in possession, Katie Bell speeding toward goal —"
Hope darted past Ravenclaw’s Chasers, keeping her eyes on the Quaffle as Katie weaved through the defenders. The game had barely begun, but the Gryffindor team’s determination was obvious.
"Katie passes to Hope Lupin — she dodges a Bludger, excellent maneuvering there — and she’s closing in on the goal!"
Hope could feel the Ravenclaw Keeper watching her, waiting. She faked left, gripping the Quaffle tightly, then twisted her body mid-air. With a fierce throw, she sent the ball hurtling toward the left hoop — and it sailed cleanly through.
"YES! HOPE LUPIN SCORES!" Lee’s voice was almost as loud as the crowd’s cheers. "That’s ten points to Gryffindor, and what a shot! I swear, she’s as quick as a Comet 260 — no, faster! And just imagine how unstoppable she’d be if she were on a Firebolt too! If only someone had given her one say at Christma–"
"Jordan," came a low, stern voice, distinctly not Professor McGonagall’s.
"Sorry, Professor Lupin! Just an observation," Lee added, though he sounded far from apologetic.
Hope grinned, circling back into position. She for one appreciated Lee’s commentary, and though she wouldn’t admit it, she also greatly appreciated that her father was there, watching her in action.
Scanning the pitch. Ravenclaw was already regrouping, their Chasers charging toward Gryffindor’s end. Hope shot forward, determined to keep their momentum.
Harry zoomed by in the opposite direction, his eyes scanning the sky for the Snitch. Cho Chang was close behind him, expertly blocking his movements. Hope didn’t miss the way Harry’s jaw clenched in frustration.
"Show her your acceleration, Harry!" Fred called, zooming past as he sent a Bludger careening toward the Ravenclaw Beater.
The Quaffle was in a Ravenclaw chaser's hands, racing down the pitch. Hope sped after him, her broom jolting slightly as she accelerated.
"Ravenclaw in possession — but here comes Lupin!"
Hope swerved through the air, closing the gap fast. Just as the Ravenclaw Chaser aimed for a goal, Hope zipped alongside her, hand outstretched. The Quaffle slipped from the Chaser’s grip — and Hope had it.
"Blazing speed from Lupin once again! I swear, if that girl gets a Firebolt one day, she’ll be lapping us all!"
"Jordan," Professor Lupin’s voice came once more, though this time there was a trace of amusement as he watched Hope with a proud smile.
"Right, sorry, Professor Lupin! Just a bit of well-earned praise!"
Hope shook her head fondly.
The Gryffindor stands roared in celebration. And she exchanged a quick grin with George as he chased after a Bludger.
But then —
A flash of gold.
Hope’s stomach flipped as she spotted Harry diving toward the ground, Cho hot on his heels. The Snitch. It was low, just above the barriers. The crowd roared as Harry closed in, his Firebolt streaking through the air.
"Come on, Harry," Hope whispered, gripping her broom tightly.
But just as Harry gained on it, a Bludger rocketed toward him. He twisted, avoiding it by inches, but the Snitch disappeared in that fleeting moment.
"Ooooooh!" The collective groan echoed through the stands. The Ravenclaw supporters cheered for their Beater’s quick work, while the Gryffindors vented their frustration.
"Gryffindor still in the lead, ninety to thirty, but the Snitch is anyone’s game!" Lee narrated, barely able to contain his excitement. "And the Firebolt continues to impress — Harry’s dodging like a pro, but Ravenclaw’s Seeker, Cho Chang, is staying right on his tail!"
Hope hovered mid-air, gripping her Swiftstick tightly as she scanned the field. Harry was a blur of scarlet and gold, streaking through the sky with Cho Chang right on his tail. The Snitch gleamed ahead, darting and twisting just out of reach. Hope’s heart pounded as Harry accelerated, pulling farther ahead.
“He’s got it!” she thought, breathless.
But then Cho’s sharp cry split the air.
“Oh!”
Hope’s gaze followed Cho’s pointing finger, and a wave of dread crashed over her. Below them, three figures in tattered black cloaks loomed at the edge of the pitch. Dementors. Their presence seemed to drain the very sunlight from the air, casting an eerie shadow over the field.
“Harry,” Hope called out, anxiety knotting her stomach.
She watched as he faltered for a second, his eyes fixed on the monstrous figures. Every instinct in her screamed at him to fly, to get away — but instead, Harry’s hand shot to his robes.
“Expecto Patronum!”
The words rang out clear and powerful. From the tip of Harry’s wand burst a magnificent silver form, blazing like a beacon. Hope’s jaw dropped. She’d only seen Patronuses in books, but this — this was something else. The figure charged at the Dementors, driving them back. She barely had a moment to marvel before Harry surged forward, his gaze locked on the Snitch.
“Come on, come on,” Hope murmured, clutching her broom tighter.
With one last burst of speed, Harry’s fingers closed around the Snitch. The golden wings beat helplessly against his palm. Madam Hooch’s whistle blew, signaling the end of the match. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold still — and then the Gryffindor stands erupted in wild cheers.
“He did it!” Hope shouted, her grin splitting wide.
The rest of the team was already barreling toward Harry, red blurs colliding in mid-air. Hope laughed, diving down to join the chaotic celebration. She barely managed to land before the others tackled Harry in an overwhelming mix of cheers, hugs, and laughter. Wood was yelling at the top of his lungs, his face flushed with joy.
“That’s my boy!”
Angelina and Katie smothered Harry with kisses, and Fred practically lifted him off the ground in a bear hug. Hope clapped Harry on the back, her grin unwavering.
“That was bloody brilliant!” she said, breathless.
The crowd surged onto the pitch, Gryffindors pouring from the stands. Ron was the first to reach them, pumping his fist in the air.
“Yes!” he bellowed, grabbing Harry’s arm like they’d just won the World Cup. “Yes! Yes!”
Percy pushed through next, grinning with unusual enthusiasm. “Well done, Harry! Ten Galleons to me! Must find Penelope, excuse me—”
“Good on you, Harry!” Seamus shouted, his face lit with pride.
“Ruddy brilliant!” Hagrid’s voice boomed from somewhere in the crowd.
“I think congratulations are in order for a certain Chaser as well,” a familiar voice said in Hope’s ear.
She turned, coming face to face with Lupin, who wore a proud smile. There was a warmth in his eyes that made something in Hope’s chest tighten.
“You were incredible, sweetheart. Really, I think you’re the best I’ve ever seen.”
Hope gave a small smile, but the awkwardness was impossible to ignore. Outside of class, she hadn’t spoken to him since their argument. The memory of it lingered uncomfortably.
“Well,” she said, trying to sound light, “to be fair, you haven’t seen that many Quidditch games.”
Lupin chuckled. “I watched quite a few in my Hogwarts years, actually. And you’re the best Chaser I’ve seen. Dare I say, even better than James.”
Hope’s eyes brightened. “Really?”
“Really.” He nodded, his smile unwavering.
The words warmed her in a way she wouldn’t admit. Everyone always had glowing stories about Harry’s father — James Potter, the Quidditch legend. The fact that her own dad thought she could be not only on par with him, but perhaps even better, filled her with a quiet pride.
They fell into step together, walking toward Harry as the congratulatory crowd slowly dispersed. The roar of laughter and excited chatter still echoed across the pitch.
“That was quite some Patronus,” Lupin said from behind Harry.
Harry turned, his face still flushed from the rush of victory.
“The Dementors didn’t affect me at all!” he said excitedly. “I didn’t feel a thing!”
“That would be because they — er — weren’t Dementors,” Lupin replied, his tone laced with quiet amusement. “Come and see.”
Hope furrowed her brows. “They weren’t?”
Lupin shook his head, leading them through the thinning crowd until they reached the edge of the pitch.
“You gave Mr. Malfoy quite a fright,” Lupin said, a trace of dry humor in his voice.
Hope blinked. Harry’s mouth fell open.
There, in a tangled heap on the ground, were Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Marcus Flint. They were struggling to untangle themselves from long, black, hooded robes. Judging by the way Malfoy was sprawled across Goyle, it seemed he’d been standing on his shoulders.
Hovering above them, her face a portrait of barely restrained fury, was Professor McGonagall.
“An unworthy trick!” she was shouting. “A low and cowardly attempt to sabotage the Gryffindor Seeker! Detention for all of you, and fifty points from Slytherin! I shall be speaking to Professor Dumbledore about this, make no mistake! Ah, here he comes now!”
Hope Broke out into a fit of laughter. She wasn’t the only one. Ron, who had managed to push his way through to Harry’s side, doubled over, howling with laughter as Malfoy thrashed to free himself from the tangled robes. Goyle’s head remained firmly stuck inside his.
“Come on, Harry!” George called, weaving through the crowd. “Party! Gryffindor common room, now!”
“Right,” Harry said, a grin spreading across his face. He looked happier than Hope had seen him in ages.
She turned back to Lupin, whose gaze was still fixed on her. He gave her a small nod, his expression warm.
“Go celebrate with your team,” he said.
Hope nodded, but instead of rushing off, she hesitated. Then, before she could overthink it, she ran back and threw her arms around him.
“Thank you for coming,” she murmured, her face against his shoulder.
Lupin held her tightly, his hand resting on her back.
“I always will,” he said softly.
Hope didn’t reply, but as she pulled away and ran to join her teammates, a lingering warmth followed her.
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It felt like they’d already won the Quidditch Cup. The party had been going strong all day and showed no signs of stopping. Fred and George had disappeared for a while, only to return triumphantly, arms loaded with bottles of Butterbeer, pumpkin fizz, and bags full of Honeydukes sweets.
"How did you manage that?" Angelina Johnson squealed as Fred started tossing Peppermint Toads into the crowd.
"How’d you manage that?" Angelina Johnson squealed as Fred started tossing Peppermint Toads into the crowd.
George leaned in close, his breath warm against Hope’s ear. "With a little help from Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs," he murmured, his voice low and playful.
Hope felt her cheeks flush, the warmth from the fire only making it worse. She tried to play it off, rolling her eyes. "You know, most people would just say ‘we smuggled it in’ and leave it at that."
"But where’s the fun in that?" George shot back, his grin widening as his gaze flickered across her face. The light from the fireplace danced over her features, highlighting the rosy tint to her cheeks. She really was quite pretty — probably the prettiest girl in the school, at least in his opinion.
Hope caught the way his eyes lingered and quickly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Lucky for you, I’m hard to impress," she said, though the slight smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.
"Then I guess I’ll just have to try harder," George replied, his voice warm and full of mischief. And from the way Hope’s blush deepened, he couldn’t help but think that maybe he was already succeeding.
The common room buzzed with laughter and chatter, a jumble of excited voices and celebratory cheers. But while most of Gryffindor was still riding the high of victory, one person wasn’t joining in.
Hermione sat in the corner, hunched over an enormous book titled Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles, her lips pressed together tightly.
Hope frowned. "Mione, come celebrate," she said, walking over and giving her friend a gentle tug.
"I can’t," Hermione mumbled without looking up.
Hope crouched beside her, trying again. "Just for a bit?"
"I have to finish this by Monday," she said, her voice tense.
Hope was about to argue when Harry approached, his hair still windblown from the match.
"Did you even come to the match?" he asked, frowning.
"Of course I did," Hermione said quickly, her voice unnaturally high. "And I’m very glad we won, and I think you did really well, but I need to read this."
Harry glanced across the room at Ron, who was dramatically waving a Fudge Fly in the air. Hope could see the hesitation in Harry’s expression. Maybe Ron would drop the whole Scabbers issue — though knowing him, it wasn’t likely.
"Come on, Hermione," Harry tried, his tone gentler. "Come have some food. Celebrate a little."
"I can’t, Harry, I’ve still got four hundred and twenty-two pages to read!" Hermione said, her voice growing slightly hysterical. "Anyway..." She shot a quick glance at Ron. "He doesn’t want me to join in."
"Who cares? I want you to join in," Hope said, looking at her hopefully.
For a moment, Hermione hesitated, her fingers clutching the massive book. But before she could respond, Ron, in typical fashion, chose that exact moment to speak up.
"If Scabbers hadn’t just been eaten, he could have had some of these Fudge Flies," he said loudly. "He used to really like them —"
Hope’s face dropped as Hermione’s expression crumpled. Before Hope could say anything, Hermione slammed her book shut, tucked it under her arm, and rushed from the room, tears streaking down her face.
"Ron," Hope muttered, rounding on him.
"That was mean," she said, giving him a light shove.
Ron scowled. "You know what else is mean? Her cat murdering Scabbers."
"Can’t you give her a break?" Harry asked quietly.
"No," Ron snapped. "If she just acted like she was sorry — but she won’t. She’s still pretending Scabbers just went on holiday or something."
Hope shook her head, frustrated. She understood Ron was upset, but he wasn’t exactly being fair.
The party eventually wound down when Professor McGonagall appeared, her tartan dressing gown and hairnet firmly in place. One stern look from her was all it took.
"Enough!" she declared, her voice cutting through the noise. "Bed. All of you."
Groaning, the Gryffindors reluctantly shuffled toward the dormitory stairs. Hope trudged up with Lavender and Parvati, her legs aching from the long day. The room was dark except for the silvery glow of the moon peeking through the window. Hermione had already drawn her hangings shut, her breathing slow and steady.
Hope sighed, guilt twisting in her chest. She hated seeing Hermione upset. Ron needed to apologize.
At last, exhausted, Hope climbed into bed, twitched the hangings of his four-poster shut to block out a ray of moonlight, lay back and felt herself almost instantly drifting off to sleep ...
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.
Arabella’s hands shot up, her voice low and pleading.
“All the lives you ruined — the lives of your friends, people who loved you, cared for you. And for what?” Her voice cracked, but her eyes stayed steady, burning with anger and heartbreak.
The man whimpered, his grip on the wand shaky. "He would’ve killed me. I had no choice. No choice," he stammered, the words spilling out like a prayer — or an excuse.
"Did you regret it? Ever?" Arabella’s voice softened, the fight in her flickering beneath the weight of sorrow. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she held strong. She refused to cry. Not in front of him. Not in front of the traitor.
A thick silence hung between them. Then, barely above a whisper, the man spoke.
"I'm sorry, Bella."
The words were hollow. The wand in his hand no longer wavered.
"Don’t — just don’t hurt her," Arabella pleaded, her gaze flicking toward the cracked door. She knew he had heard it — the creak of the floor, the muffled whimpers of the five-year-old hiding just out of sight. He knew.
"Please," Arabella's voice broke, desperation spilling from her lips. "Please, not her."
But no answer came. Only a flash of green light.
"Avada Kedavra."
Arabella crumpled to the floor, her body lifeless before it even fully hit the ground. Her eyes — once so full of warmth — now stared blankly toward the doorway. Death had come swiftly. No last words. No answer. And no certainty that Hope was safe.
Hope trembled beneath the bed, her hands clamped tightly over her mouth to muffle her cries. But the sound of her own sobs echoed in her ears. Through the crack in the door, her mother’s still eyes seemed to meet hers, the light gone from them.
She waited, too terrified to move. Her small body shook uncontrollably, expecting the man to come for her next. But instead, she heard footsteps retreating. The heavy thud of boots. And then — nothing.
Silence.
The house was empty now. Only the echoes of her cries remained.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGHHHHH! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Hope shot up abruptly, her chest heaving. Her nightshirt clung to her skin, damp with cold sweat. She wasn’t sure what had woken her — the nightmare or the distant scream. Neither was good.
Around her, the other girls stirred groggily, rubbing their eyes and mumbling half-formed questions. The thick shadows of the dormitory seemed to press in, the faint glow from the embers in the fireplace barely illuminating the room.
“What was that?” one of the girls mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
“Did you hear it too?” another whispered.
But Hope wasn’t listening. A chill ran down her spine, the lingering dread of her dream twisting in her stomach. The sound — whatever it was — echoed in her mind. Everyone was moving now, some trailing out of the dormitory, curiosity overpowering exhaustion.
Hope followed, her bare feet padding softly against the cold stone floor. As they reached the common room, it was clear they weren’t alone. More students stumbled in, their faces pale and confused. The fire had burned low, casting a dim orange glow over the debris of the victory party. Empty bottles of Butterbeer and discarded wrappers littered the room. Yet no one was celebrating now.
“Who shouted?” someone called out.
“What’s going on?” another voice added, laced with concern.
The murmurs grew louder.
“Are you sure you weren’t dreaming, Ron?” Harry’s voice broke through, though he sounded uncertain.
“I’m telling you, I saw him!” Ron’s voice was frantic, his face pale beneath the messy tufts of red hair.
Hope furrowed her brows. “Saw what?”
The tension in the room thickened.
“What’s all the noise?” Angelina’s voice came from somewhere in the crowd, her own tiredness evident.
“Professor McGonagall told us to go to bed!” a boy grumbled.
Some of the girls had followed down from their staircase, pulling on dressing gowns and rubbing their eyes. Boys, too, emerged from their dormitories, their curiosity outweighing their desire for sleep.
“Excellent, are we carrying on then?” Fred grinned, though the usual mischief in his tone was dimmed.
“Everyone back upstairs!” Percy commanded, storming into the common room. He hastily pinned his Head Boy badge to his pajamas as though it might restore some authority.
“Perce—Sirius Black!” Ron’s voice cracked, his hands trembling. “In our dormitory! With a knife! Woke me up!”
The common room went deathly still.
“What? Ron, are you okay?” Hope rushed toward him, her concern overriding her sleepiness. She reached out, gripping his arm gently, her eyes searching his face.
Percy’s face twisted in disbelief. “Nonsense!” he sputtered. “You had too much to eat, Ron — it was a nightmare!”
“I’m telling you—” Ron’s voice shook, the words catching in his throat.
Before he could say more, the portrait hole slammed open. Professor McGonagall stormed inside, her robes billowing behind her. Her sharp eyes swept over the gathered students, fury radiating from her.
“I am delighted that Gryffindor won the match, but this is getting ridiculous!” she snapped. “Percy, I expected better of you!”
“I certainly didn’t authorize this, Professor!” Percy protested, puffing up indignantly. “I was just telling them all to get back to bed! My brother Ron here had a nightmare—”
“IT WASN’T A NIGHTMARE!” Ron yelled, his voice cracking. “PROFESSOR, I WOKE UP, AND SIRIUS BLACK WAS STANDING OVER ME, HOLDING A KNIFE!”
A ripple of fear swept through the room. Professor McGonagall’s stern expression faltered. For a moment, it seemed like she might dismiss it — like she wanted to. But the tremble in Ron’s voice was undeniable.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Weasley,” she said, though her voice had lost some of its bite. “How could he possibly have gotten through the portrait hole?”
“Ask him!” Ron shot back, his trembling hand pointing toward the back of Sir Cadogan’s portrait. “Ask him if he saw—”
Professor McGonagall’s jaw tightened. Without a word, she spun on her heel and yanked the portrait open. The common room held its breath, straining to hear the exchange.
“Sir Cadogan,” she demanded, her voice dangerously low. “Did you just let a man enter Gryffindor Tower?”
“Certainly, good lady!” Sir Cadogan cried, his chest puffed out proudly.
There was a stunned silence. Inside the common room, no one moved. Outside, McGonagall’s voice wavered. “You—you did?”
“But—but the password!”
“He had ’em!” Sir Cadogan declared, almost cheerfully. “Had the whole week’s, my lady! Read ’em off a little piece of paper!”
Professor McGonagall pulled herself back through the portrait hole, her face as pale as parchment. She scanned the room, her hands trembling slightly at her sides.
“Which person,” she said slowly, her voice trembling with barely contained fury, “which abysmally foolish person wrote down this week’s passwords and left them lying around?”
Silence. No one dared to breathe.
Then, the tiniest of squeaks broke the stillness. Neville Longbottom, shaking from head to toe, raised his hand. His fluffy slippers peeked out from beneath his pajamas as he stared at the floor, his face burning with shame.
The weight of what had happened hung heavy in the air. Hope’s heart ached for Neville. But the lingering fear gnawed at her. Sirius Black had been here. In their dormitory.
And no one knew what he would do next.