Chapter 4
Harry paced in his office at the Ministry, his thoughts a tangle of confusion and guilt. How could he possibly tell Hermione about the man in the holding cell? How could he even begin to explain it when he didn’t understand it himself? The person who looked exactly like a younger Ron, who claimed to *be* Ron, was lying just enough to keep him off balance, and yet—there was something in his voice, something so painfully familiar. But he couldn’t keep this from Hermione any longer. She would have questions, ones he didn’t have answers to, but she needed to hear this from him. The Wizengamot would catch wind of it soon enough, and there would be questions from every corner of the magical world. Questions he wouldn’t be able to avoid. As the Minister for Magic, Hermione would be the first to demand answers, especially after the events at Shell Cottage. Time was of the essence.
His mind flickered to the man—the *younger Ron*—still in the holding cell. Harry had spent hours interrogating him, trying to find a crack, a lie, something to prove this man wasn’t Ron. But each question was met with confusion and frustration. If this truly wasn’t Ron, he was an extraordinary actor. And if it *was* Ron, how could Harry justify keeping him locked in that dark cell? Even the possibility, remote as it was, gnawed at Harry. With a sigh, he made his decision. He couldn’t leave him in the shadows any longer. He called in an Auror and gave instructions to move the detainee to a new holding cell with basic amenities—a bed, a window, light. Harry couldn’t just let this man sit in the darkness.
Ron blinked as he sat up, feeling the soft mattress beneath him. His eyes adjusted to the dim light coming from a small, barred window high in the wall. This new cell was far different from the one he’d woken up in earlier. It was still a prison, but at least it was brighter. There was even a small toilet in the corner. He glanced toward the window, realizing the light streaming in was artificial—the Ministry’s way of mimicking daylight underground. He didn’t know why they had moved him, but he was grateful. His body ached from the previous confinement, and his mind was still spinning from the interrogation. Harry—*Harry*—had been the one asking the questions, but nothing made sense anymore. The man in front of him looked older, so much older than the Harry he remembered. And yet, it was unmistakably him. Could he really be in the Ministry of Magic? Or was this all some twisted Death Eater plot? His certainty was starting to crack. His thoughts drifted to his family—his father, mother, Ginny, Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George—and even Hermione. Were they safe? Were they alive? The fear gnawed at him, but he had no way of knowing. He just hoped that wherever they were, they were alright.
Harry Apparated just outside the protective wards surrounding Ron and Hermione’s house. He stared at the familiar cottage, the weight of the task ahead pressing heavily on him. After Ron’s death, security had been heightened for Hermione as Minister for Magic, and the sight of two Aurors stationed near the entrance reminded Harry just how vulnerable she was now. As he approached, the Aurors nodded to him in recognition. He gave them a small wave, passing through the gates. His heart ached knowing that this was the first time he’d come here without Ron being inside, without the two of them sharing a drink or a game of chess. The house felt emptier than ever. He hesitated at the door, his knuckles hovering before he knocked twice, the sound feeling impossibly loud in the quiet. After a moment, the door opened, revealing another Auror. After exchanging the secret passcode, the Auror stepped aside, allowing Harry in with a nod. The inside of the house was dim and quiet, the weight of grief palpable in the air. Hermione was seated by the fireplace, the same spot where Ron had spent so many nights—laughing, strategizing, or just sipping a glass of firewhisky with Harry. Now, the room felt like it belonged to a different world.
Hermione lifted her head as Harry entered. The sight of her nearly shattered his resolve. Her eyes were red and swollen, puffy from crying. But it wasn’t just the tears—it was the look of complete and utter defeat on her face, something Harry hadn’t seen since they had been captured at Malfoy Manor. It took everything in him not to turn around and walk back out. But he knew he couldn’t. She deserved the truth, no matter how strange or impossible it sounded. Without saying a word, Hermione gestured for him to sit across from her. Harry lowered himself into the chair, his head hanging low, his hands clenching in his lap. The silence between them was thick with unspoken grief, and still, she said nothing, waiting for him to speak first.
Harry took a deep breath. "There was... an incident at Shell Cottage," he began, his voice strained. As soon as the words left his mouth, he saw the distress flicker across Hermione’s face, and he hurried to add, "Everyone is safe. The attacker was subdued. Bill, Fleur, Victoire—everyone’s alright."
Relief washed over her face, but it was quickly replaced by something sharper. Her eyes narrowed, and Harry knew the next question was coming before she asked it.
"Who was it?" she asked quietly, her voice trembling. "Who attacked the house?"
Harry’s mouth went dry. He struggled to meet her gaze, the weight of what he had to say settling in his chest. "That’s... what I need to talk to you about." He hesitated, his throat tight, the words sticking in his mouth. "Hermione... it was someone who looked like Ron. But younger—like when we were seventeen."
The room fell into silence, Hermione's eyes widening, disbelief etched across her face.
"Harry..." she whispered, her voice trembling. "What are you saying?"
Harry swallowed hard. "There's someone who looks exactly like Ron—when we were seventeen."
Hermione froze, her breath catching. "But Ron is dead."
Harry’s heart pounded as he looked into her eyes, knowing the next words would shatter everything.
"I don't know how, Hermione," he said quietly. "But he's at the Ministry."