XXV
Thalia drifted in and out of consciousness, her mind a haze of blurred images and half-heard voices. The line between dreams and reality was thin, a fragile thread that snapped and reformed with each breath. She wasn’t sure how long she had slept, only that the weight of exhaustion still pressed heavily on her limbs.
At times, the world around her seemed distant and surreal. Through her lashes, she glimpsed Professor McGonagall seated at her large oak desk, her quill scratching across parchment. Occasionally, the professor would murmur aloud from a Transfiguration text, her voice steady and soothing, though the words seemed to melt away before Thalia could grasp their meaning.
There were moments when the anxious whispering of the professors filled the room, their voices a soft hum in the background. They spoke in hushed tones, their words fragmented and drifting, but Thalia caught enough to know they were talking about her. Her name floated through the air, accompanied by phrases like "trauma," "protection," and "the Ministry."
Then there were the dreams—or were they dreams? At one point, she was certain George was there, his familiar presence a balm against the chaos in her mind. She could feel his fingers brushing gently through her hair, his touch light and reassuring. His voice was a low murmur, soothing and full of emotion, though the words were indistinct. She wanted to reach out, to tell him she was okay, but her body felt weighed down, as if trapped beneath an invisible force.
The peacefulness didn’t last. Her grandfather's voice erupted in her mind, sharp and furious, shattering the calm. She saw him standing in the office, his face twisted with rage as he hurled objects across the room. His wand sparked with green light, the deadly glow illuminating his contorted features. Thalia whimpered softly, her hands curling into fists as she tried to push the vision away.
And then there was the snake. Its scales glistened in the dim light, dark and slick as it coiled itself around the legs of the sofa. Its movements were slow, deliberate, as if savoring the moment. It slithered closer, its unblinking eyes fixed on her, its forked tongue flickering out to taste the air. She wanted to scream, to move, but her body remained frozen, her breath caught in her throat.
The snake lunged—and Thalia jolted awake, her heart hammering in her chest. The room was quiet, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. Professor McGonagall looked up from her desk, her sharp eyes immediately scanning Thalia's face.
"Miss Winterbourne?" she said gently, rising from her chair and approaching the sofa.
Thalia blinked, her vision still blurry, the dream's shadows lingering in the corners of her mind. "I... I think I was dreaming," she murmured, her voice hoarse and uncertain.
McGonagall knelt beside her, her expression a mix of concern and relief. "You're safe now," she said firmly, her hand resting lightly on Thalia's shoulder. "Whatever you saw, it can't hurt you here."
Thalia closed her eyes again, trying to steady her breathing as the memories and dreams clawed at her mind, making her reality a nightmare. When she opened her eyes, Professor McGonagall was still watching her, her brow furrowed with concern.
"How are you feeling? Should I call Madame Pomfrey?" McGonagall’s voice was soft, but it carried a weight of worry that made Thalia feel guilty for causing it.
Thalia shook her head, the motion slow and deliberate. The idea of falling asleep again terrified her—dreams that vivid were too much to bear. "I'm okay," she whispered, her voice rasping painfully as it scraped past her swollen throat. "How long have I slept?"
McGonagall leaned forward, her hands moving instinctively to help Thalia as she struggled to prop herself up. The professor fluffed a pillow and adjusted it behind her back, guiding her gently into a more upright position. "A couple of days," she replied. "It’s Monday evening. We found you on Sunday morning."
Thalia blinked, trying to piece together the fractured timeline in her mind. It felt like she’d been drifting in and out of consciousness for weeks, not days. McGonagall must have sensed her confusion because she continued, her tone reassuring. "All your professors have been told you’ve contracted a severe throat infection. They believe you’re resting under Madam Pomfrey’s care."
Relief washed over Thalia at the thought that her ordeal hadn’t been broadcast across the school, but it was short-lived. Her stomach twisted as a memory surfaced, sharp and urgent. Her eyes went wide, and she grabbed McGonagall’s sleeve with trembling fingers.
"Lucius!" she blurted, her voice cracking under the strain. "You need to give the name Lucius to Kingsley. Long, almost white hair, grey eyes. Really tall." She spoke quickly, the words tumbling over each other as she strained to recall every detail about the man who had interrupted her torture.
McGonagall’s expression sharpened. "Miss Winterbourne?" she asked carefully. "This Lucius—did he do this to you?"
Thalia shook her head violently, her tears spilling over as she tried to clarify. "No," she croaked, her voice breaking with emotion. "He interrupted... and watched." The last word came out as a whisper, laden with disgust and shame. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she forced herself to continue. "But he’s in on it. He’s working with my grandfather. He summoned him somewhere because ‘he’ wanted to talk to him. Something about finalizing the decoy plan."
Her breathing grew ragged, her words spilling out faster and faster. "Please, Professor, you have to tell Kingsley. It’s the only thing I’ve been able to give! It might help!" Her voice climbed in pitch, the desperation in her tone unmistakable.
McGonagall placed a firm but gentle hand on her shoulder, her other hand rubbing soothing circles on her arm. "Okay, Thalia," she said, her voice calm and steady, an anchor against the storm of Thalia’s panic. "You’re okay. I’ll tell him. I promise."
Thalia nodded, her tears still falling, but the professor’s reassurance allowed her to take a shaky breath. She leaned back against the pillow, her strength spent, her body trembling with exhaustion.
McGonagall stayed by her side, her hand never leaving Thalia’s shoulder. "You’ve done well, my dear," she murmured.
The room seemed to shrink as Thalia’s voice dropped to a near whisper. "It wasn’t Lucius, Professor." Her words trembled, barely audible, but heavy with unspoken truths. Her hands twisted the edge of the blanket draped over her lap, her knuckles white as she struggled to steady herself. The weight of what she was about to say pressed down on her like a stone. She wasn’t sure she was ready for the pity—or worse, the judgment—but the fear clawing at her insides demanded she speak.
"I got a letter at breakfast yesterday, ordering me home," she began, her voice cracking. She didn’t dare look at McGonagall, afraid of what she might see in the professor’s eyes. But when no interruption came, she pressed on, her words spilling out in a rush. "He had my report. I thought... I thought he’d be proud. I got O’s in everything." Her voice wavered, the pride she’d once felt now drowned in the memory of what had followed. "But then... then he’d been sent a message. About my participation in Dumbledore’s Army." Her hands tightened further on the blanket, her nails digging into the fabric. "Apparently, a torturous detention with Professor Umbridge wasn’t punishment enough."
She let out a bitter, humorless laugh, but the sound was quickly swallowed by the tears that began to fall freely, carving silent paths down her cheeks. She stared down at her lap, her vision blurring as her voice dropped to a whisper. "I thought he might kill me."
The soft sniffle from beside her made her glance up. Professor McGonagall was no longer the stern, unshakable figure Thalia had always known. Her lips trembled, and unshed tears glistened in her eyes. "I’m so sorry, Thalia," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "We—the faculty here at Hogwarts—have failed you." Her words were filled with sorrow and a deep, genuine regret that made Thalia’s chest tighten. "When you are ready, we will contact the Ministry Aurors. They will find Polaris Winterbourne and bring him to justice. I promise you that."
Her tone was resolute, but the conviction in McGonagall’s voice made Thalia recoil. Panic flared in her chest, and she scrambled upright, her movements frantic and uncoordinated. "You can’t!" she cried, her voice raw and strained. The sharp pain that tore through her throat made her wince, but she didn’t stop. "I won’t talk to them!"
McGonagall leaned closer, her expression softening as she tried to comfort her. "Thalia, it’s all right. I’ll be here with you every step of the way," she said gently, her hand reaching out to steady the girl.
"No!" Thalia’s voice cracked as she shook her head violently, tears streaming down her face. "You don’t understand!" Her chest heaved as she fought to catch her breath, her words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "The information I can gather from that house—Professor, I know what we’re dealing with! I believe Harry. I believe him when he says the Dark Lord has returned." Her voice broke, but her eyes burned with a fierce determination. "When it comes down to a fight, we need to know who and what we’re up against. I can tell you that!"
McGonagall froze, her gaze locking with Thalia’s. For a long moment, the room was silent except for Thalia’s ragged breathing. The professor’s lips pressed into a thin line as she studied the girl before her, the weight of her words settling heavily between them.
The air in the room was heavy, the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth the only sound as Professor McGonagall leaned forward in her chair, her hands clasped tightly together. Her gaze, sharp and unwavering, softened as she looked at Thalia, who sat curled on the sofa, her small frame dwarfed by the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The girl’s pale face was streaked with tears, her eyes red-rimmed but blazing with determination.
"Miss Winterbourne," McGonagall began, her voice low but resolute, "you’ve endured more than anyone should, and no information is worth your safety—or your life. I have a duty of protection, not only as your teacher but as someone who cares for your well-being. I must report anything—"
Thalia cut her off, her voice rising with urgency despite the rawness of her throat. "You confirmed you were part of an organisation," she said, her words tumbling out in a rush. "An organisation actively fighting against the rise of You-Know-Who. I know the information I can gather from that house will help you! You can protect the lives of hundreds, potentially thousands!" Her voice cracked, but her resolve did not waver. "Please, Professor. You know I’m right."
McGonagall’s lips pressed into a thin line, her sharp features shadowed by the flickering firelight. The weight of Thalia’s words settled heavily on her shoulders, and for a long moment, she said nothing. Her heart ached for the girl—for the impossible position she found herself in, for the courage she shouldn’t have had to summon at her age. But the professor could not ignore the glaring danger Thalia was placing herself in.
"And what of you, Thalia?" McGonagall asked softly, her voice trembling with uncharacteristic emotion. "Who will keep you safe?"
Thalia looked down at her lap, her fingers twisting and pulling at the frayed edge of the blanket. Her hands trembled slightly, whether from the cold or the weight of her thoughts, McGonagall wasn’t sure. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "It doesn’t matter," she said, her words shaky but firm. "Not if it means we can stop him. Not if it means we can stop them."
She lifted her head then, and McGonagall was struck by the fierce determination burning in her tear-streaked eyes. "You know I’m right, Professor," Thalia said, her voice gaining strength. "I can get information no one else can. I’ve heard them talk about plans, about people. My grandfather thinks I’m too scared to defy him, but I can use that. I can stay close, listen, and learn. Just like Dumbledore said."
McGonagall inhaled sharply at the mention of Dumbledore, her expression flickering with something between pride and despair. "Thalia," she said, her tone firm but laden with sorrow, "this is not your fight to fight alone. The Order exists for this very reason. We have people who are trained for espionage, who can gather intelligence without putting themselves in such peril. You are not a soldier—you’re a child."
"I’m not a child anymore," Thalia replied, her voice steady now despite the tears streaming down her face. "Not after what I’ve been through. Not after what I’ve seen." She leaned forward, her eyes locking onto McGonagall’s. "I know what I’m doing, Professor. Please, let me help."
The room fell silent again, the weight of Thalia’s plea hanging between them. McGonagall’s stern façade cracked, a flicker of anguish passing across her face as she grappled with the enormity of the decision before her. She had seen bravery before—countless times, in countless students—but this felt different. This felt wrong. And yet, she couldn’t deny the truth in Thalia’s words.
Finally, McGonagall exhaled, her shoulders sagging under the burden of her choice. "I will discuss your arguments with the Order. But until a decision is made, you are to remain here, under my care. No exceptions. Is that clear?" she said, her voice heavy with reluctance. "We will go from there."
Thalia nodded, relief mingling with exhaustion as she slumped back against the cushions. McGonagall watched her for a long moment, her heart heavy with the knowledge that no matter what decision was made, the scars of this war—both visible and invisible—would remain forever etched on the heart and mind of this girl.
McGonagall straightened, her professional demeanor returning. "Rest now. Sleep and relaxation are just as medicinal as vials of potions." Thalia smiled slightly but nodded.
As McGonagall turned to leave the room, Thalia sank back into the pillows, exhaustion washing over her. The professor paused at the door, glancing back with a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "You are braver than most, Miss Winterbourne. But bravery without caution is recklessness. Don’t forget that."
With that, she left, the door clicking softly behind her. Thalia stared at the ceiling, her mind racing despite her body’s weariness. She had won a small victory, but the battle ahead loomed larger than ever.
~.~.~.~
The following morning, Thalia stirred at the sound of a timid knock on the door. Her eyes fluttered open, the hazy morning light filtering through the curtains. Before she could respond, the door creaked open, and Professor Sprout’s warm, round face appeared, a relieved smile spreading across her features.
"There you are, Miss Winterbourne," she said softly, stepping into the room. "Professor McGonagall has second-year Transfiguration this morning and asked me to check in on you."
Thalia offered a weak smile, gesturing for the professor to enter. Her body still ached, her movements sluggish, but she appreciated the familiar comfort of Sprout’s presence.
"I brought you some soup," Sprout continued, holding up a small tray with a steaming bowl. "Not the most popular choice for breakfast, I’ll admit, but I thought it might soothe your throat. Oh, and—" She reached into a canvas bag slung over her arm, pulling out a neatly folded set of clothes. "Mr. Weasley insisted I give you this. He thought you might appreciate a change of clothes." She set the bag down on the coffee table with a fond smile, her earthy tone laced with unspoken concern.
Thalia’s chest tightened at the thought of George. She took the tray with trembling hands, her hoarse voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you, Professor."
Sprout knelt beside her, watching with gentle scrutiny as Thalia sipped the warm soup. The savory aroma filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of lavender from the blankets draped over her. The heat soothed her raw throat, though swallowing still sent a dull ache radiating through her neck.
"Good girl," Sprout murmured encouragingly, her keen eyes softening as Thalia finished the bowl. But when Thalia set the tray aside and swung her legs over the edge of the sofa, her knees buckled the moment she stood. The room tilted precariously, and her vision swam.
Professor Sprout was at her side in an instant, her sturdy hands steadying Thalia before she could collapse. "Slowly, dear. You’re still regaining your strength," she said firmly, her tone gentle but brooking no argument.
Thalia’s cheeks flushed with frustration as she nodded, hating the frailty that gripped her. She despised the helplessness, the reliance on others that seemed to define her every movement. Sprout seemed to sense her inner turmoil, her grip firm but reassuring as she guided the girl toward a door across the room.
"Here we are," Sprout said, pushing the door open to reveal a modest bathroom with neatly folded towels. "You freshen up in here. I’ll be just outside. If you need anything—anything at all—don’t hesitate to shout."
Thalia gave a faint nod, clutching the bag of clothes to her chest as she stepped inside. The cool tiles underfoot sent a shiver up her spine, but she welcomed the privacy. As the door clicked shut behind her, she let out a shaky breath, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
Her face was pale and drawn, dark circles bruising the skin beneath her eyes. Her hair hung limp around her shoulders, and faint shadows of bruises lingered along her neck. She swallowed hard, turning the faucet on to splash cool water on her face. It was a small act, but it made her feel a little more like herself.
Digging through the bag, Thalia’s fingers brushed against something smooth—a toothbrush. It was a small, thoughtful inclusion that made her heart ache with gratitude. Quickly, she set about brushing her teeth, savoring the minty taste as it chased away the stale, metallic tang that had lingered far too long. For the first time in days, she felt a semblance of normalcy.
When she finished, she glanced at the shower and hesitated. The thought of washing away the remnants of her ordeal—the ghostly touch of her grandfather’s cruel hands—became an overwhelming need. She reached for the tap, twisting it until a steady stream of hot water began to pour. Steam rose quickly, curling around the room and fogging the mirror.
Gingerly, she began to undress, each movement a painful reminder of her battered body. As her clothes pooled at her feet, her eyes caught her reflection in the mirror, and a sharp gasp escaped her lips. Bruises bloomed across her skin like grotesque flowers, dark purple fading into sickly green. One particularly vivid mark curled from her stomach, around her hip, and up her spine, a cruel testament to the violence she had endured.
Her throat tightened, tears pricking her eyes, but she blinked them away. Crying wouldn’t help. Wallowing in self-pity was for the weak and feeble, she chastised herself. Drawing a shaky breath, she turned toward the shower, stepping into the cascading warmth.
The water stung at first, but as it ran over her sore muscles, it brought a soothing relief. She stood there for what felt like an eternity, her forehead resting against the cool tiles as the water washed away the grime and tension. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to feel safe, the steady rhythm of the water drowning out the echoes of her grandfather’s voice in her mind.
Before she could use up all the hot water in the castle, Thalia turned off the tap and reached for one of the fluffy towels hanging nearby. She patted herself dry with care, wincing as the towel brushed against tender spots.
Rummaging through the bag George had packed, she pulled out a familiar crimson Quidditch jumper and a pair of oversized sweatpants. A small laugh bubbled up from her chest, the sound foreign but welcome. She knew without trying them on that the clothes would be far too big, their loose fit perfect for avoiding her inflamed skin.
As she unfolded the jumper, a folded piece of parchment fluttered to the floor. Curious, she bent down carefully to retrieve it. The untidy scrawl of George’s handwriting greeted her:
With you always – G x
A watery smile tugged at her lips, and a warm, comforting sensation spread through her chest. She clutched the note for a moment, letting its reassurance sink in, before tucking it safely into the pocket of the sweatpants.
Feeling lighter than she had in days, Thalia dressed and stepped back into the room. Professor Sprout was seated on the sofa, her round face breaking into a wide smile as she looked up.
"Looking much better, dear," Sprout said warmly, though her eyes twinkled with humor. "Although I had hoped the clothes would actually fit you."
Thalia couldn’t help but laugh softly, the sound raspy but genuine. She shuffled toward the sofa as Sprout patted a spot beside her.
"Come, sit down," the professor encouraged, her tone as motherly as her demeanor. As Thalia settled, Sprout reached into the bag and pulled out a hairbrush. Without a word, she began to gently brush Thalia’s damp hair, her touch light and soothing.
The rhythmic strokes of the brush, combined with Sprout’s quiet hum of an old tune, lulled Thalia into a rare state of relaxation. For the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to lean into the warmth of another’s care, her guard lowering just enough to feel safe.
Thalia spent the rest of the day in the quiet comfort of Professor McGonagall’s rooms, a strange sense of normalcy beginning to return to her as the hours passed. She worked through the assignments she had missed, the professors offering gentle guidance when needed, and read through the textbooks with a focus that felt almost foreign after everything she’d been through. The soft rustling of pages and the occasional murmur of McGonagall or Sprout discussing her work filled the room. The air was warm, filled with the rich scent of pastries and fruit that Dobby the house-elf had delivered earlier. The sweet, comforting aroma of fresh bread and ripe berries helped ground her, and for a moment, she allowed herself to forget the weight of what had happened.
By the time dinner rolled around, Thalia felt almost like herself again—almost. The persistent twitching in her hands was a constant reminder of the Cruciatus curse that had ravaged her body, and the occasional twinge of pain that flared up in her ribs or spine was impossible to ignore. But aside from that, she could almost convince herself that the nightmare was nothing more than a bad dream, something that had happened to someone else. She had just finished the last paragraph of her Potions essay when she noticed Professor Sprout and McGonagall exchanging a silent look, one that carried an unspoken weight.
“What?” Thalia asked, her voice hoarse but curious, as she watched the two professors communicate without words. McGonagall turned to her, her expression a mix of worry and humor, as if she were about to deliver news both serious and somewhat amusing.
“Whilst we’ve kept you up here, Miss Winterbourne,” McGonagall began, her voice low but steady, “we’ve been battling an entity that is hell-bent on finding you.” Her lips curled up slightly at the corners, a silent reassurance that Thalia needn’t fear. “We’ve kept them at bay because we believed you needed time to heal and to process everything you’ve been through. But… they’ve trashed the hospital wing and the greenhouses looking for you, and I’m not sure how much longer we can keep them away.”
A soft, almost inaudible laugh escaped McGonagall’s lips, a brief moment of levity in an otherwise tense atmosphere. Thalia’s brow furrowed in confusion, her mind still struggling to catch up with the implications of the professor’s words.
“The twins are outside, dear,” Professor Sprout added, her voice warm with amusement. “They’ve been begging to see you, and threatening to wreak havoc if they can’t. George, normally the more docile of the two, used some very… colorful language when expressing his desire to see you.” There was a sparkle of laughter in her eyes as she spoke, a hint of affection for the twins’ antics despite the situation.
Thalia instinctively shrank back into the sofa, her gaze dropping to her lap. “I can’t explain to them,” she whispered, her voice barely audible as she hugged her knees to her chest, a deep unease settling in her stomach.
McGonagall, ever the steady presence, moved toward her with a soft, comforting grace. She sat beside Thalia and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “Shh, it’s okay, Thalia,” she soothed, her voice gentle but firm. “We’ve explained to them that they cannot push you or ask you about your ordeal. They’ve been told to give you space to heal. But it seems to me that they genuinely just want to check on you, to make sure you’re okay.”
Thalia glanced up at McGonagall, her heart heavy with the weight of the situation. “I’ve never seen them so worried and serious,” McGonagall continued, her tone softening with empathy. “They care about you, Thalia. They want to make sure you’re safe. They’re not going to push you.”
Thalia stayed quiet for a moment, her fingers gripping the edge of the blanket draped over her lap. The idea of facing George—and Fred, by extension—was daunting. She wasn’t sure she could handle their concern or the inevitable questions, even if McGonagall had warned them off. Her ordeal felt like a fragile secret, one she wasn’t ready to share.
She glanced up at the two professors, both of whom were watching her with a mix of patience and encouragement. Professor Sprout, her round face full of warmth, gave her a reassuring nod. McGonagall, ever composed, squeezed her shoulder gently.
Sprout spoke, her tone firm but kind. "If you don’t feel ready, we can send them away for a bit longer."
Thalia shook her head. "No, it’s fine. I—" She hesitated, then forced herself to take a deep breath. "I want to see them."
Thalia felt McGonagall’s hand give her a reassuring squeeze. The warmth of the professor’s touch anchored her, providing a much-needed sense of calm amidst the swirl of emotions she had been trying to suppress. Professor Sprout’s footsteps echoed softly as she moved toward the door, her voice gentle but firm as she reminded Thalia, “You’re in control here, Thalia. If you need a break, just let us know.”
Thalia nodded, her heart pounding in her chest, a mixture of nerves and anticipation twisting her stomach into knots. The blanket around her shoulders felt like a fragile shield, offering her a small comfort as she instinctively shuffled closer to McGonagall. The professor’s presence was grounding, like a rock in the storm of her thoughts.
The sound of hurried footsteps and muffled voices filtered through the door, and Thalia’s breath hitched as she felt her pulse quicken. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but she knew that facing George and Fred would be different—different from the quiet, safe space she had built with the professors. The door creaked open, and George appeared first, his tall frame filling the doorway. His eyes were wide with concern, and his face was a mixture of relief and barely contained worry. His gaze immediately sought Thalia, and when he saw her curled into McGonagall’s embrace, the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly. Fred followed behind him, his usual grin nowhere to be found, replaced by a look of seriousness that Thalia wasn’t used to seeing.
"Thalia," George breathed, his voice soft, yet laden with something deeper, something that made Thalia’s heart ache. He took a tentative step forward, as if unsure how close he could come without overwhelming her. Fred lingered a step behind, his eyes flickering between his twin and Thalia, his expression unreadable.
Thalia managed a small smile, but it felt fragile, like it might break if she held it too long. Her throat felt tight, raw from her injuries and all the emotions that had been bubbling up inside her, and when she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. "Hi," she croaked, her words sounding distant even to her own ears.
George’s eyes softened, and he crouched down in front of her, careful to keep his distance, but his gaze never wavered from hers. "Hi," he replied gently, his voice full of warmth. "You had us worried sick, you know."
Fred nodded, his usual mischievous grin nowhere in sight. "We thought you’d run off to join the centaur herd in the Forbidden Forest," he said, trying to lighten the mood, but his voice lacked the usual playfulness. There was an edge of concern there that Thalia hadn’t expected.
A shaky laugh escaped her, and she twisted the blanket in her hands, feeling the weight of their words settle heavily on her chest. "I’m sorry," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
George quickly shook his head, his hand twitching as if he wanted to reach out to her but thought better of it. "Don’t be," he said softly. "You don’t have to explain anything. We just... wanted to see you. Make sure you’re okay."
Thalia looked up at Professor McGonagall, her heart swelling with gratitude. The professor gave her a small, encouraging smile, and with a gentle nod, she stood up from the sofa, her movements graceful and deliberate. She made her way to her desk at the back of the room, giving the students some space to talk, but her watchful gaze never strayed too far.
Fred stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, his usual boisterous energy replaced by a rare softness. "We’re not here to badger you, Thalia," he said, his voice quiet and sincere. "Just tell us what you need. If that’s us leaving, we’ll go. If it’s sitting here in silence, we can do that too."
Thalia blinked back the sudden tears that threatened to spill over, her chest tightening as she fought to keep her composure. She hadn’t realised how much she needed their presence, their calm, until now. "Just... stay?" she whispered, her voice trembling as she looked at them both.
"Of course," George said immediately, his lips curving into a small, reassuring smile. He moved to sit on the floor beside her, leaning back against the sofa, his presence steady and comforting. Fred followed suit, his movements less graceful but no less thoughtful, sitting down on the other side of George, his eyes softening as he looked at her.
For a long moment, they sat in silence, the weight of words unnecessary. The soft ticking of a clock in the corner, the occasional rustle of parchment as McGonagall marked some papers, and the quiet hum of the castle outside the window were the only sounds that filled the room. It was a peaceful, almost sacred silence, and Thalia found herself grateful for it.
Eventually, Fred pulled out a pack of cards, shuffling them idly as George leaned his head back against the sofa. Thalia caught his eye, and he gave her a small, understanding smile, his eyebrows raised in a silent question.
"I’m glad you got the bag," George said, his voice lightening just a little. "Ginny helped me pack it. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have had a hairbrush..." He laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, and Thalia couldn’t help but smile at his awkwardness.
Thalia chuckled softly, the sound foreign to her ears, but it felt good. "Thank you—both," she said, her voice still rough but filled with gratitude.
"Have you eaten?" George asked, his brow furrowing with concern. Thalia nodded, about to explain that Dobby had brought her pastries, but Fred interrupted with his usual playful tone.
"Alright, Molly Weasley, let’s reign it in a bit," he said with a grin, his eyes sparkling mischievously. "Lia exploding snap, or hearing about how we’ve caused chaos in your absence?"
Thalia smiled, the warmth in her chest spreading at Fred’s attempt to break the tension. "I heard about the Hospital Wing and the Greenhouses," she said, her voice a little stronger now.
The twins burst into laughter, the sound filling the room and easing some of the heaviness in the air. They launched into an epic tale of their antics, recounting the chaos they had caused in their usual exaggerated fashion. Thalia listened, her heart lightening with every word, her stomach fluttering at the familiarity of their banter.
"Did you at least try to clean up?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Fred shrugged exaggeratedly. "We tried. But, you know, chaos doesn’t tidy itself up. It’s the Weasley way."
George chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "We were going to fix it, but then Pomfrey got there and... well, let's just say she didn’t exactly appreciate our ‘help.’"
Thalia’s laugh was soft, but it felt genuine. Her breath hitched in her chest as she looked between the two of them. The warmth in their eyes, the quiet sincerity in their presence—it was all too much. The weight of everything she had been through, the fear and the pain, seemed to shift for just a moment. She felt a lump form in her throat, her heart swelling with gratitude.
"Thank you for being here," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, the words feeling heavier than she expected. She blinked back the sudden rush of tears, her vision blurring for a second as she fought to keep them at bay. It felt almost silly, how quickly her emotions surged. The vulnerability she felt was almost overwhelming, but the tenderness in the twins' faces, the way they simply were there, without asking for anything in return, broke through the walls she’d been holding up.
Fred’s smile softened, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned forward slightly. "Always, Winterbourne," he said, his voice low and full of that genuine warmth that only Fred could carry. His words, simple but profound, wrapped around her like a protective blanket.
George, too, smiled, his expression full of that rare, unspoken understanding that passed between the two of them. "Best friends, remember," he said, his voice just as sincere, but with that familiar, lighthearted edge that always made Thalia feel a little lighter, even in the darkest of moments.
They continued to talk, the conversation shifting between lighthearted stories of their pranks, the latest happenings at Hogwarts, and the occasional mention of what was happening outside the walls of the school. But for the moment, none of it felt quite as pressing.
As the hours passed, the laughter and comfort of their presence slowly began to ease the raw edges of Thalia’s anxiety. The twitching in her hands lessened, and the familiar sense of safety, the one she’d always found with the twins, returned.
Slowly, Thalia felt herself sinking into the soft embrace of the sofa, the layers of blankets and pillows cocooning her in warmth and comfort. The rhythmic murmur of Fred and George’s voices, punctuated by their occasional laughter, was like a soothing lullaby.
It took a moment for the twins to realise she’d fallen asleep. Fred was mid-sentence when he paused, noticing the steady rise and fall of her chest and the soft, almost inaudible snores that escaped her lips. George turned to look at her, his expression softening as he crouched down beside her.
"She’s out," Fred whispered, his voice quieter now, as if afraid to wake her.
George leaned in closer, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead with a gentleness that seemed out of place for someone known for pranks and chaos. His hand stilled when he noticed the faint, dark bruising around her neck. His jaw tightened, and he glanced back at Professor McGonagall, who was already watching him with a knowing look.
"I know you can’t tell us what’s going on," George murmured, his voice thick with emotion, "and I know she’s not ready to talk about it. But please, Professor, promise me you’ll keep her safe."
McGonagall’s stern expression softened as she took in the sight of the boy, his fingers brushing over Thalia’s hand with such care it was as though he feared she might break. "That is my intention, Mr. Weasley," she said, her voice steady but kind. "But I’ll ask something of you in return." She paused, her gaze flickering to the sleeping girl. "Make her laugh and smile as much as possible. Remind her there’s light in the world, even when it feels like there isn’t."
George swallowed hard, his throat tightening as he nodded. "I promise," he said quietly, his voice resolute.
McGonagall’s eyes drifted to the clock above the mantle, and she let out a soft sigh. "Merlin’s beard, we’ve lost track of time. It’s well past curfew," she said, shaking her head as if to clear it.
Fred, ever the one to lighten the mood, grinned. "Some professors would say we don’t care about that rule, Professor," he quipped, though his tone lacked its usual bravado.
McGonagall gave him a pointed look, though there was a faint hint of amusement in her eyes. "Under the current leadership, Mr. Weasley, I’d strongly encourage you to follow the rules. Now, let me finish up here, and I’ll escort you both back to your common room."
Fred and George stood, stretching their legs after sitting on the floor for so long. Their movements must have disturbed Thalia, as she stirred, her brow furrowing slightly. Her hand shot out instinctively, grabbing George’s as she mumbled, "Don’t go."
George’s heart clenched at the sight of her, so vulnerable and afraid even in her sleep. He crouched back down, taking her hand in both of his and gently rubbing circles into her palm with his thumb. "I’m not going anywhere, Lia," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
She blinked up at him, her eyes glassy with sleep, and frowned again. "Promise?" she murmured, her voice slurred and small.
George bent closer, his lips twitching into a soft smile. "I promise. I’ll come back tomorrow, okay? Sleep now, Lia."
Thalia’s grip on his hand loosened as her eyes fluttered shut again, her breathing evening out. George lingered for a moment, watching her with a mixture of affection and protectiveness, before standing and joining Fred by the door.
As McGonagall ushered them out, George glanced back one last time, his heart heavy but hopeful. "Tomorrow," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.