XXIV
Thalia’s feet barely touched the ground as she raced through the Hogwarts grounds, occasionally slipping on the dew covered grass. Her heart hammered in her chest, each beat urging her forward. She needed to be out of the castle and beyond the gates before the boys realized she’d lied. The thought of George, Fred, or Lee catching up to her made her stomach twist.
The winged boars at the gate loomed ahead, their stone forms as imposing as ever. As she passed through, she slowed her pace, the sound of her hurried footsteps fading into the stillness of the countryside. The open expanse beyond Hogwarts felt oddly suffocating, her mind swirling with unanswered questions.
Was she in trouble?
Had her grandfather returned from London?
Why had he summoned her so abruptly?
Excuses and explanations began forming in her mind, each one unraveling as quickly as it came. She rehearsed them silently, her lips moving without sound as she walked, trying to prepare for any scenario.
When she finally reached the house, it looked as it always did—calm, unassuming, and deceptively ordinary. The neatly trimmed hedges and the soft puff of smoke from the chimney gave no indication of urgency or danger. Yet Thalia’s nerves didn’t settle.
The fire in the study was lit; she could see the faint orange glow through the window. That small detail made her pause on the porch. Her grandfather rarely lit the fire unless he was planning to spend hours in there, poring over documents or brooding over matters he didn’t want to share.
Taking a deep breath, she tugged at the hem of George’s jumper, realizing belatedly how conspicuous it was. The oversized garment hung off her shoulders and covered her knees. Please don’t notice, she thought desperately, though she knew her grandfather’s sharp eyes rarely missed a detail.
Running her hands through her unruly curls, she tried to tame them, but the stubborn strands resisted. Giving up, she straightened her posture and exhaled shakily, her breath fogging the air.
The door creaked slightly as she slipped inside, the familiar scent of wood polish and old books enveloping her. The house was eerily quiet, her footsteps muffled against the polished floorboards. She slipped off her shoes, setting them neatly by the door, and made her way toward the study.
Each step felt heavier than the last, the silence pressing down on her like a weight. Reaching the door, she hesitated, her hand hovering just inches from the wood. Her palms were clammy, and she wiped them on her leggings, the fabric barely absorbing the moisture.
Get it together, Thalia, she scolded herself, swallowing the lump in her throat. Raising her hand, she knocked once, the sound startlingly loud in the stillness.
She waited, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure whoever was inside could hear it. Anxiety coiled tightly in her chest, threatening to spill over as she braced herself for whatever awaited her on the other side.
The sharp, unyielding tone of her grandfather's voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Enter," he commanded, his words devoid of warmth.
Thalia hesitated for only a moment, the familiar shiver of dread creeping down her spine, before gently pushing the heavy door open. The room was dim, illuminated only by the flickering glow of the fireplace. Shadows danced across the dark wood paneling, making the space feel even more oppressive. She stepped forward cautiously, her soft footfalls barely making a sound against the thick rug, until she stood in the center of the room.
She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, her heart pounding as the silence stretched, thick and suffocating. She could feel her grandfather’s eyes on her, the weight of his scrutiny pressing down on her like a physical force. Every second of his appraising glare seemed to stretch into an eternity, and the urge to fidget was almost unbearable.
Finally, unable to endure the silence any longer, she lifted her head. “Grandfather,” she said softly, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to sound composed. She clasped her hands tightly in front of her, a desperate attempt to still their shaking.
He cocked his head to the side, his sharp, calculating eyes narrowing as they swept over her. His gaze lingered on the oversized jumper she wore, and Thalia’s heart sank, her stomach twisting in knots.
“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable at Hogwarts,” he said, his voice sharp and clipped, each word laced with disdain.
“Yes, Sir,” she replied quickly, knowing there was no point in trying to explain. “I am achieving top grades in all of my subjects,” she added, hoping that her academic success might soften his gaze, might draw even the faintest hint of pride from the man before her.
But his expression remained as cold and unyielding as ever.
“So I have heard,” he said, thumbing through a stack of parchment on his desk. “O’s in every subject, with Professor McGonagall recommending you take the N.E.W.T. exams early. Impressive.”
“Thank you, Sir,” she said, bowing her head slightly. Relief began to bloom in her chest, the sinking feeling in her stomach easing slightly. If he wanted to talk about academics, she could handle that.
“Your Head of House calls you an asset to your year,” he continued, adjusting the spectacles perched delicately on his nose as he scanned the parchment. “Caring, loyal, and popular, she says. I wasn’t aware you had cultivated such a... tight-knit group of friends.”
Thalia swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice steady. “I grew closer to some of the Hufflepuff girls in my year,” she explained, noting the way his lip curled in disdain at the mention of her house. “We were paired together in Alchemy.”
“Hm. I see,” he murmured, his tone laced with skepticism. He set the parchment down and fixed her with a cold, piercing stare. “And are these... friends... part of the same extracurriculars as you?”
Her blood ran cold. The calmness in his voice was far more terrifying than any outburst. He knew. Somehow, he knew about Dumbledore’s Army.
“I—” she faltered, fear flashing across her face as she struggled to think of an explanation, a plausible lie that might appease him.
“I don’t know—”
“Do not lie to me!” he roared, the sudden explosion of anger making her flinch. He snatched a letter bearing the Hogwarts crest from his desk and hurled it at her. It landed at her feet with a sharp rustle of parchment.
Her hands trembled as she knelt to pick it up, her mind racing. What did he know? How much? She barely had time to process the questions before pain exploded in her side.
The force of his kick sent her sprawling to the floor, the letter slipping from her grasp as she gasped for breath.
Thalia hit the floor hard, the air rushing from her lungs in a sharp gasp. Pain radiated from her ribs where her grandfather's boot had connected, and for a moment, she couldn't move, her mind reeling from the shock as much as the impact. The crumpled letter lay just out of reach, the Hogwarts crest glaring up at her like an accusation.
"Do you think I am a fool, Thalia?" her grandfather's voice boomed, each word dripping with venom. "Do you think I would not find out about your... activities?"
She struggled to push herself up, her hands trembling as they braced against the cold, unforgiving floor. Her side throbbed with every shallow breath, but she forced herself to sit upright, her wide eyes fixed on the letter.
"I trusted you," he continued, his tone icy now, though the fury still burned in his eyes. "I trusted that you would conduct yourself with the dignity befitting a Winterbourne. And yet, here you are—consorting with troublemakers, defying the rules, and sullying our name!"
The first kick landed hard against her ribs, the force of it stealing her breath. Each subsequent blow came in brutal rhythm, his words punctuated by sharp impacts that sent shockwaves of pain through her body. Thalia curled into herself, her arms wrapped tightly around her head, trying desperately to shield herself from the worst of it. Stars danced across her vision, and her body screamed in protest, but she refused to cry out.
Her throat tightened, tears burning in her eyes, but she blinked them away furiously. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her break. She wouldn’t let him win. "I haven’t done anything to disgrace our family," she said, her voice trembling but steady, barely audible over the roaring in her ears.
Her grandfather's laugh was sharp and bitter, like the crack of ice breaking. "Haven’t you?" he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "Aligning yourself with that ridiculous rebellion? You chose Potter and Dumbledore over honour and loyalty to your family."
Before she could respond, he bent down and seized a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back so she was forced to look him in the eyes. Pain shot through her scalp, but she bit her lip to keep from crying out. His face was a mask of fury, his lips curled into a snarl.
"You’re wrong," she said, her voice stronger now despite the trembling in her limbs. "The DA isn’t about rebellion. It’s about defending ourselves, about learning what we need to survive."
Her defiance earned her a vicious punch to the side of her head. Pain exploded in her skull, her ears ringing as her vision blurred and darkened at the edges. She swayed, disoriented, but managed to stay upright, her back pressed against the wall for support.
"Wrong?" he spat, his voice a dangerous growl. "You have brought disdain down on our heads!"
He advanced on her, his shadow looming over her as she instinctively tried to back away, only to feel the unyielding wood of the bookcase behind her. Trapped.
"If fighting for what is right brings dishonour on you and our house," she said, her voice shaking but laced with steel, "I would happily do it all again."
Her words seemed to ignite something in him, his eyes flashing with a murderous fury. His lips twisted into a sneer, and his voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper. "You insolent, ungrateful girl."
Turning sharply, he grabbed his wand from the table, the polished wood gleaming ominously in the dim light. He pointed it squarely at her chest, his hand steady despite the rage that consumed him.
"You will learn to respect me," he said, his voice rising with each word, trembling with barely contained madness. "Respect the Winterbourne name, respect our beliefs, and do your duty to this house. If I have to beat that into you, then so be it!"
With a quick, furious flick of his wand, he snarled, "Crucio."
Agony unlike anything she had ever known erupted through her body. It was as though every nerve was on fire, her muscles seizing and convulsing against her will. A scream tore from her throat, raw and guttural, as she crumpled to the floor. Her vision blurred with tears, and her mind was consumed by the all-encompassing pain.
The room seemed to spin around her, the sound of her own screams mingling with her grandfather’s heavy breathing. The pain felt endless, infinite, each second stretching into an eternity.
Finally, the curse lifted, and she collapsed, gasping for breath, her body trembling violently. Every inch of her ached, her limbs heavy and unresponsive as she lay sprawled on the cold floor.
Her grandfather loomed over her, his expression cold and detached, as though he had just swatted a fly. "Perhaps now you understand," he said, his voice calm and measured, as though he hadn’t just inflicted unimaginable pain on her. "You will obey me, Thalia. You will uphold this family’s legacy, or you will suffer the consequences."
Thalia didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her body refused to move, her mind too clouded by the lingering echoes of the curse. But deep within her, a spark of defiance remained. She might be broken and battered, but she wasn’t defeated.
Not yet.
It was as though her Grandfather could sense her lingering insubordination, as though he knew he hadn’t yet broken her. With another casual flick of his wand, Thalia’s body trembled uncontrollably as the pain surged through her again, the curse ripping through her like wildfire. Her skin burned with the intensity of it, every nerve in her body screaming in agony. She couldn’t find the words to beg for mercy, the only sound escaping her lips was a desperate, broken whimper. Her vision blurred, the edges of her sight darkening as her body fought to stay conscious. She wasn’t sure what she was pleading for—death, release, anything to stop the endless suffering.
Suddenly, the room erupted with a blinding flash of green light, searing across her vision like a bolt of lightning. For a moment, she thought the curse had finally come to an end. She thought her grandfather had decided to end it all with the Killing Curse. But the pain didn’t stop, and the green light flickered out as quickly as it had come. Thalia’s body slumped to the side, barely able to keep herself upright as she struggled to breathe.
It was then that she saw him—tall, imposing, his white-blonde hair gleaming in the dim light of the study. His presence seemed to fill the room, and for a moment, the air itself seemed to thicken with the weight of his gaze. His eyes were cold, calculating, though there was something else there—curiosity, perhaps, or something darker, something Thalia couldn’t quite place.
"Sorry to interrupt, Polaris," the man drawled, his voice smooth and unhurried, barely sparing Thalia a glance as he addressed her grandfather. "He wishes to see you. He wants to finalise the plan and confirm the decoy."
"Give me ten minutes, Lucius," her grandfather responded, his voice thick with disdain, refusing to meet the man’s gaze. "I need to clear up some things here."
Thalia’s heart skipped a beat. Lucius. The name echoed in her mind, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Another face. Another name she could give to Kingsley.
The man—Lucius—bowed slightly, his movements fluid and practiced, before retreating back into the flames, disappearing into the green glow of the floo network.
Thalia barely registered the exchange, her mind clouded with pain and confusion. Her grandfather’s presence loomed over her like a shadow, and she knew, without a doubt, that the worst was yet to come. He stalked towards her, his movements predatory, his eyes gleaming with cold fury.
Before she could even react, he seized her by the chin, lifting her roughly off the ground and slamming her back against the bookcase with a force that rattled her bones. She gasped for air, but his hand tightened around her throat, forcing her head back, keeping her in place. His face was inches from hers, his breath hot and rancid as he growled through gritted teeth.
"When you return to that hovel of a school," he spat, his voice low and menacing, "you will be on your best behaviour. You will respect the Headmistress' authority, or I can promise you, you will pay."
Thalia couldn’t find the strength to respond. Her body was still reeling from the curse, her muscles twitching uncontrollably. She couldn’t focus, couldn’t speak. All she could do was breathe in shallow gasps, her vision swimming in and out of focus.
Her grandfather’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into her skin, and for a moment, she thought he might crush her throat entirely. But then, without warning, he released her, shoving her back into the bookcase with a brutal force. She crumpled to the floor, the impact sending jolts of pain through her already battered body.
She couldn’t move. Her limbs were like lead, and her head swam with dizziness. She couldn’t even bring herself to lift her eyes to see him leave. She could only hear the whoosh of the floo, the green flames crackling as he disappeared into the fire, leaving her alone in the study.
The silence was deafening. The room felt cold and empty, and the weight of what had just happened pressed down on her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of everything—her grandfather’s threats, Lucius Malfoy’s visit, the DA, the rebellion, the choices she had made. Everything felt like it was crashing down around her. But she couldn’t focus on her spiralling thoughts, her head was beginning to grow foggy and a black curtain had begun to fall over her vision dragging her into unconsciousness.
~.~.~.~
Thalia’s mind was clouded, her thoughts slow and fragmented, as though she were swimming through murky water. The darkness of unconsciousness had claimed her for a time, but now, she was painfully aware of her surroundings—the cold floor beneath her, the aching pain in every part of her body, and the eerie silence of the study, which only served to heighten the haunting memories of what had transpired.
She tried to shake off the fog that clung to her mind, blinking hard against the faint light of dawn that had begun to creep through the grimy windows. Her cheek was pressed against the hardwood floor, and she shivered uncontrollably from the chill of a draught that was seeping into her skin having permeated her clothes. The fire had long since died out, leaving the room in a bitter, oppressive silence. She could only hear her own breath, each inhale a struggle as the air felt thick and heavy in her lungs. As she slowly began to stir, she realized how broken and vulnerable she felt. Her body felt foreign to her, a mass of bruises, cuts, and aches, each movement a reminder of the violence she had just endured at the hands of someone who was supposed to love her. She couldn’t stay here. She had to move.
Slowly, she began to assess the damage to her body, starting with her legs. She focused on her toes, willing them to move, then her feet, her knees. Her right leg twitched with a strange, persistent spasm that made her wince, but there was no sharp pain, no break that she could feel. Every small movement felt like a victory, a reminder that she was still alive, still capable of moving despite the overwhelming pain.
But when she tried to sit up, the agony shot through her abdomen, a searing pain that radiated from her ribs down to her spine. She gasped, biting back a cry, but she pushed through it, forcing herself into a sitting position, slumped against the bookcase for support. The pain was unbearable, making her breath come out in short pants as a light sheen of sweat covered her brow, only intensifying her shivering.
Thalia leaned forward, her breath shaky as she lifted the oversized jumper she had been wearing—George's jumper, still clinging to her like some sort of misplaced comfort. The bruises were a grotesque tapestry of black and purple, spreading across her stomach, streaking up her chest like a grotesque reminder of her grandfather's violence. She shuddered as she touched the tender spots, her fingers gently tracing the edges of the damage. Her throat felt raw, scratchy, as though she had swallowed sandpaper. She couldn't help but grimace as she touched the bruising there, a sobering realization that her grandfather’s assault had left more than just physical marks.
Her head, too, was foggy—an oppressive heaviness settled on her skull, and she feared the worst: a concussion. The dimness around the edges of her vision confirmed her suspicion. Her thoughts were slow, disjointed, but there was one thing that cut through the haze: she had to leave. She couldn't stay here. She couldn’t keep lying on the floor, a prisoner to the pain and the haunting aftermath of her grandfather’s fury. Thalia’s determination kicked in, pulling her from the depths of her shattered thoughts. She had to move. Had to get out. Had to get back to Hogwarts.
With a groan, she shifted, her body protesting every movement. The pain in her ribs flared again, and she muffled a scream as she reached a trembling hand out for her grandfather’s desk. Her fingers grasped the leg, and she used the sturdy piece of furniture to pull herself upright, her legs shaking beneath her. Every breath felt like a battle, but she forced herself to keep going, swallowing the pain and steadying herself with some deep shaking breath. The world spun for a moment as she swayed, but she focused on her goal: the door.
Her legs felt weak beneath her, and each step was a struggle. The pain in her side was almost unbearable, but she kept moving, her body dragging her forward, each shuffle bringing her closer to the exit. She paused only for a moment, standing in the doorway as her mind raced. The impulse to simply collapse into the safety of her room upstairs nearly overwhelmed her. If she could just lie down, just sleep away the pain... But the thought of being trapped here in this house, under the watchful eye of her grandfather, made her skin crawl.
No. She needed to get back to Hogwarts. She needed the safety of the castle, the comfort of her friends. She needed to forget this—if only for a little while.
With a shaky breath, Thalia bent down to slip on her shoes, each movement slow and deliberate, her mind scrambling for a reason to explain her absence when she returned. She didn’t know how she would explain the bruises or the pain, how she would ever find the courage to face George and the others, but she had to believe that if she could just get back to them, everything might somehow start to feel right again. She'd figure it out on the way, she'd lie if she had to—anything to shield her friends from what had happened, to shield them from the truth of her family’s darkness.
At first, the cool air of dawn had been a balm for Thalia’s battered body, its crispness providing a fleeting sense of relief to her bruised and swollen skin. The chill of the morning had felt like a gentle caress, easing the heat of her injuries and numbing the pain just enough to allow her to keep moving. But as her journey wore on, the very air that had once comforted her began to feel suffocating. Each sharp inhale burned her throat, the coldness seeming to scrape against the rawness of her insides. Her lungs felt as though they were filling with water, each breath shallow and desperate, like she was drowning in the very air she needed to survive. The coolness, once refreshing, now felt like a cruel reminder that she couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t escape the weight of the pain that clung to her body.
She had paused on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, leaning heavily against the rough stone wall of a building, her legs trembling beneath her as she took a moment to rest. The stillness of the village was oppressive, the silence a stark contrast to the turmoil inside her. Her body ached with every movement, and her mind felt like a fog, disconnected from her surroundings. But there was no time to rest, no time to let the exhaustion take over. She had to keep going.
Her journey had become a blur of slow, painful steps, each one more agonizing than the last. The gravel of the long drive to Hogwarts crunched beneath her feet, but she barely registered the sound, her mind too consumed with the effort of just putting one foot in front of the other. Every step was a battle, her body swaying as she fought to stay upright, her vision flickering in and out as she struggled to maintain consciousness. The pain in her ribs was unbearable, but she kept moving, driven by the need to reach safety, to find solace in the familiar walls of the castle.
By the time she reached the front doors of Hogwarts, her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, her breath ragged and shallow. Tears of pain and anguish had begun to roll down her cheeks, but she didn’t have the strength to wipe them away. She stood there for a moment, listening, hoping for the quiet of the school to offer her some peace. But the building was still, too still, and she realized it was too early for the usual sounds of breakfast. The hallways were silent, the school still asleep.
Shuffling through the door, she leaned heavily against the stone wall, her legs shaking with each movement. She bent slightly, trying to alleviate the pressure on her ribs, but the pain was relentless. Her body trembled, and a stifled whimper escaped her lips, the sound of it foreign and weak in the stillness of the castle. She was barely holding on, each step a struggle, each breath a battle.
Then, the sound of soft, measured footsteps reached her ears. The click of heels against the stone floor grew louder, and a wave of fear surged through her. She instinctively cowered against the wall, her heart racing as she braced for the worst. She thought it was Umbridge—surely it was her, coming to punish her for some imagined infraction. The thought of facing her wrath, knowing she couldn’t defend herself, sent a cold shiver down her spine.
But the voice that called her name was not harsh, nor cruel. It was full of worry, full of kindness, and the sound of it made her chest tighten in relief. "Miss Winterbourne?" The voice was gentle, questioning, and as the footsteps drew closer, Thalia looked up, her vision blurry and unfocused. She met the concerned gaze of Professor McGonagall, her eyes wide with shock. The professor’s hand flew to her mouth, her breath catching in disbelief. "Merlin," she whispered, her voice filled with sorrow and concern.
Thalia barely had time to process her words before the professor rushed off, disappearing down the corridor. She returned moments later, accompanied by Professor Sprout, whose face was etched with concern. "Oh," Professor Sprout murmured softly, her voice laced with compassion. "Dear girl."
The two professors approached her slowly, their movements cautious and careful, like they were approaching a frightened animal. Their hands were raised slightly in surrender, and they kept their eyes locked on hers, offering silent reassurance. Thalia felt the weight of their kindness, the warmth of their presence, and something inside her snapped. The dam holding back her emotions broke, and without thinking, she surged forward, collapsing into their outstretched arms.
Loud, guttural sobs wracked her body, each one more desperate than the last. She could feel the tremors in her chest, the rawness of her grief, but she couldn’t stop. She cried for everything— for the pain, for the fear, for the loss of safety, for the terror she had just endured. She wept for the girl she had been, and for the girl she was still trying to be.
Professor McGonagall cradled her head gently, pulling her closer, and Thalia could feel the older woman’s comforting touch as she whispered soothing words. "It’s alright, dear," she murmured softly, her voice a balm to Thalia’s broken soul. "You’re safe now." Professor Sprout stood beside them, her hand resting lightly on Thalia’s back, offering silent support as the girl allowed herself to break, to grieve, to feel the weight of everything that had happened.
The weight of the situation pressed heavily on all of them as Thalia clung to Professor McGonagall, her breaths shallow and uneven. Professor Sprout cast an uneasy glance over her shoulder as Thalia’s muffled hiccups broke the tense silence. “Minerva,” she whispered, her voice tight with urgency, “we really should move. If she comes, I don’t know how we’ll explain what’s going on.”
McGonagall nodded sharply, her expression grim. “We’ll take her to my quarters, Paloma. It’s the safest option for now. I’ll send for Poppy as soon as we get there.”
With the plan set, the two professors adjusted their grip on Thalia, one supporting her around the waist while the other steadied her shoulders. They began to lead her through the winding corridors, their movements careful yet swift. Every creak of the castle’s ancient stones and distant murmur of waking students made them flinch, their eyes darting nervously toward the shadows.
The castle was beginning to stir, the early risers trickling out of their common rooms and heading toward the Great Hall. The professors exchanged a knowing glance and quickened their pace, choosing the longer but less-traveled routes to avoid prying eyes. They were keenly aware of the risk of gossip and how fragile Thalia’s state was. Her head hung low, her hair shielding her face as she shuffled between them, her body trembling with each step.
But in their haste, they forgot one critical factor: the Weasley twins. Few knew the castle’s shortcuts better than Fred and George, and their protective instincts were as sharp as their mischief. As the group turned down a quiet fifth-floor corridor, a voice called out behind them, sharp and filled with concern.
“Lia?”
Thalia froze mid-step, her entire body stiffening at the sound of George’s voice. Her breathing quickened, panic flashing across her face as she turned to McGonagall, her eyes wide and pleading. “Please,” she whispered desperately, her voice barely audible, “they can’t see me like this. I can’t explain it to them.”
Professor Sprout gave her a reassuring nod, her expression softening as she gently shifted Thalia’s weight to McGonagall. “Go on ahead,” she murmured. “I’ll handle them.”
With a quick glance back at the twins, Professor Sprout straightened her posture and turned to face them. Fred and George were nearly running, their faces etched with worry and fear. George’s hands were clenched into fists at his sides, while Fred’s eyes darted past her, trying to catch another glimpse of Thalia.
“Please, Professor,” George blurted, his voice tight with emotion. “Let us see her. Is she okay? What happened?”
“Mr. Weasley,” Professor Sprout began, her voice calm but firm, “Miss Winterbourne has received some bad news. She’s not quite up for visitors yet.”
Fred’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he shook his head. “We just want to make sure she’s okay,” he argued, his tone edged with frustration. “She looked so...”
George’s voice broke as he interrupted, his words faltering. “Please,” he whispered, his eyes glistening as he stared at the retreating figure of Thalia. “She’s my...” He trailed off, the words catching in his throat, unable to articulate the depth of his feelings.
Professor Sprout placed a gentle hand on his arm, her eyes filled with understanding. “She just needs some time, Mr. Weasley,” she said softly. “I promise, she’ll be alright. Give her the space she needs.”
Fred opened his mouth to protest, but the quiet conviction in Sprout’s voice stopped him. George’s shoulders slumped, his hands falling limply to his sides as he watched Professor Sprout turn on her heel and hurry after McGonagall and Thalia.
The twins stood in the corridor, the silence between them heavy with unspoken worry. Fred finally broke it, his voice low and trembling. “She’s not okay, George.”
George swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the corner where Thalia had disappeared. “I know,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “But we’ll make sure she will be.”
The atmosphere in Professor McGonagall’s quarters was heavy with tension as Thalia slumped onto the hastily transfigured sofa, her body folding in on itself like a wilting flower. Her face was ghostly pale, her skin clammy, and her breaths came in shallow, uneven gasps. Her hand twitched sporadically, the movement erratic and unsettling, as though her body was trying to process the lingering effects of the torment she had endured.
Professor McGonagall’s lips pressed into a thin line as she conjured a soft blanket, draping it over the trembling girl. Her usual stern demeanor was replaced with one of profound concern, her eyes scanning Thalia for any sign of immediate danger. With a flick of her wand, she sent her Patronus—a shimmering silver cat—bounding off to summon Madame Pomfrey.
She had barely turned back to Thalia when the door clicked open, and Professor Sprout entered, her face etched with worry. “I managed to get rid of them for now,” she said, closing the door quietly behind her. Her gaze shifted to the frail figure on the sofa, and her expression darkened with concern. “Oh, the poor girl. Minerva, what happened?”
McGonagall shook her head, her jaw tightening as she knelt beside Thalia, brushing a strand of hair from the girl’s damp forehead. “I can only guess,” she replied, her voice low and taut with restrained anger. “But I don’t want to press her until Poppy arrives. She’s clearly been through enough.”
Sprout moved closer, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “She’s not just physically hurt,” she murmured, her eyes lingering on the way Thalia flinched at even the faintest sound. “Whatever happened, it’s shaken her to the core.”
McGonagall nodded, her expression grim. “I fear this is more than an accident or a simple altercation. Look at her, Paloma. This isn’t just pain—it’s trauma.”
Sprout exhaled shakily, her gaze flicking to the door as if willing Madame Pomfrey to arrive faster. “We’ll need to tread carefully. She’ll need support, and I’m not just talking about medical care.”
Before McGonagall could respond, a soft knock sounded at the door, followed by the familiar brisk voice of Madame Pomfrey. “Minerva? You called for me?”
“Thank Merlin,” McGonagall muttered, rising to her feet and hurrying to open the door. Pomfrey swept in, her expression sharp and professional as she took in the scene before her. Without wasting a moment, she knelt beside Thalia, her wand already in hand.
“Miss Winterbourne,” Pomfrey said gently, her tone soothing but firm, “I’m going to take a look at you now. You’re safe here, I promise.”
Thalia didn’t respond, her gaze unfocused and distant, but she didn’t resist as Pomfrey began her examination. McGonagall and Sprout stood back, their eyes heavy with worry as they watched the matron work.
“She’s in bad shape,” Pomfrey said after a few minutes, her voice tight. “Bruised ribs, severe muscle strain, and signs of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse.” She paused, her expression hardening. “And that’s just the physical injuries.”
The room was heavy with an oppressive silence, broken only by the faint crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle of fabric as the professors shifted uneasily. Madame Pomfrey worked with steady hands, her expression a mix of professionalism and barely concealed outrage. She pulled out an assortment of vials, a mortar and pestle, and a roll of bandages, setting them on a nearby table with precise movements.
When she lifted Thalia’s oversized jumper to assess the damage, a collective gasp escaped the other two women. Professor McGonagall’s hand flew to her mouth, and Professor Sprout muttered under her breath, her face paling.
“How was she still standing when we found her?” McGonagall murmured, shaking her head in disbelief.
Pomfrey’s face was grim as she began to work. She spread a thick, pungent paste over the dark bruises that marred Thalia’s torso, her fingers gentle but efficient. Once the paste was applied, she wrapped the girl’s ribs with bandages, her movements precise and practiced despite the visible discomfort etched across Thalia’s face.
The matron reached for a shimmering silver potion, its surface catching the light like liquid starlight. “This will help,” she murmured, tilting Thalia’s head back and carefully pouring the potion down her throat. Almost immediately, Thalia’s body relaxed, the tension draining from her limbs as the sleep draught took effect.
“She’ll sleep now,” Pomfrey said softly, smoothing Thalia’s hair back from her damp forehead.
For what felt like hours, the room was filled with the quiet murmurs of incantations and the soft clink of potion bottles. When Pomfrey finally stepped back, she looked as exhausted as if she’d fought a duel herself. She slumped into the chair McGonagall offered, gratefully accepting a steaming cup of tea.
“I’ve mended her ribs and done what I can for the bruising and swelling,” Pomfrey said, her voice heavy with fatigue. “That should reduce the worst of her pain. But there’s little I can do for the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse. Whoever did this to her held it for an extended period—her nerve endings are practically fried. That’s why she’s twitching.” She glanced at Thalia, who now lay peacefully on the sofa, her chest rising and falling in steady breaths. “She’s lucky she hasn’t gone mad. It’s a miracle, really.”
Sprout’s face darkened, her usual warm demeanor replaced with a simmering anger. “She’s just a child,” she said, her voice trembling with barely restrained fury. “And it didn’t happen here, did it? Considering where we found her.”
McGonagall shook her head, her lips pressed into a tight line. “I don’t believe so. Which means she walked nearly two miles in this condition.” Her voice cracked slightly, and she took a moment to compose herself, her fingers gripping the edge of the chair. “I’ve seen many things in my time, but nothing... nothing quite like this.”
Pomfrey looked up from her tea, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studied McGonagall. “You know more than you’re saying, Minerva,” she said quietly, her tone probing but not unkind.
McGonagall hesitated, her gaze flicking to Thalia before settling on the matron. “We’ve suspected for a while that her home life was... less than ideal,” she admitted, her voice low and measured. “But I don’t think any of us realized it was this bad. She always seemed so cheerful—always smiling, always kind. It was easy to overlook the signs.”
Sprout’s fists clenched at her sides. “We can’t overlook it anymore,” she said firmly. “Something has to be done.”
McGonagall nodded, her expression resolute. “Agreed. But we must tread carefully. If we act rashly, we risk making things worse for her.” She glanced at Thalia again, her eyes softening. “For now, we focus on helping her heal. The rest... we’ll figure out later.”
The three women fell silent, their unspoken determination binding them together. Thalia stirred slightly in her sleep, her face relaxing as the potion worked its magic. Whatever horrors she had endured, she was safe now—at least for the moment.