Chapter 6
The next day, the Ministry of Magic was still cloaked in the early morning quiet, the halls only beginning to fill with the bustling sounds of a workday. In Harry’s office, however, there was already a tension so thick it was hard to breathe. Hermione sat across from him, her face pale but resolute. She had arrived early, wanting to avoid the curious glances that would undoubtedly follow her. She was still very much in mourning, but given the circumstances, she had no choice but to press on. Her grief had to wait.
Harry rubbed his temples, exhaustion pulling at him. "I've received so many owls," he said, glancing at the stack on his desk. "Ginny’s worried—she’s asking why I haven’t come home yet. But Bill’s owl is the most urgent. He’s demanding answers. He knows something’s up, and I won’t be able to keep them all at bay for long."
Hermione nodded, her own mind racing with the same thoughts. The Weasleys would want to know what was happening, and soon enough, they’d all be demanding the truth. But first, they had to deal with this situation.
"We need to move quickly," Hermione said, her voice measured. "We’ll bring the Ron- the Ron impersonator to the interrogation room again. We’ll start with the facts—tell him about the death of Ron Weasley, some basic details about Ron’s life that are publicly known. Then we’ll move on to the more personal things, things only Ron would know. We’ll have to convince him that we’re not Death Eaters."
Harry agreed, though a pit of worry gnawed at him. "Once we’ve laid everything out, we need to explain the procedure—the memory access. He has to agree to it, Hermione. We can’t force this."
A flutter of wings interrupted them, and a memo shot through the open door, landing in front of Harry. His eyes scanned the parchment, and his face changed instantly. Hermione noticed the shift and leaned forward.
"What is it, Harry?"
He swallowed, looking up at her with wide eyes. "It’s from Ollivander. When we apprehended the Ron lookalike, we confiscated his wand. I had it sent to Ollivander for analysis. Hermione..." His voice dropped. "It’s Ron’s wand. The exact same wand."
Hermione’s breath caught, her heart skipping a beat. "But… Ron’s wand was buried with him. It’s wizarding tradition. How can this be possible?"
Harry shook his head, the disbelief evident in his expression. "I don’t know. But that’s why we need to get to the bottom of this now." He immediately called for an Auror to bring the prisoner to the interrogation room.
Moments later, the Auror entered the office, glancing between Harry and Hermione with surprise at seeing the Minister for Magic in such an unexpected place. Still, he followed Harry’s orders and left to fetch the detainee.
Ron found himself back in the brightly lit interrogation room, his heart pounding. The last time he had been in this room, it had been a nightmare—nothing made sense, and the people interrogating him seemed like cruel doppelgängers of the people he knew and trusted. But now, something felt even more surreal.
Across from him stood two figures. The man was the same one he had seen before—the older version of Harry Potter. But it was the woman standing beside him that shook Ron to his core.
Hermione.
She looked the same, yet different—older, wiser, her face etched with pain and grief he couldn’t begin to understand. Her eyes were trained on him, solemn and unreadable, holding within them a weight that seemed too heavy to bear. She looked... *broken*.
Ron’s breath hitched. "Hermione?" he groaned, disbelief crashing over him. This couldn’t be real. Logically, he knew he should have expected to see her, but nothing had prepared him for this moment.
Hermione said nothing, her gaze steady and piercing. Harry was the first to speak.
"We need to determine the truth, Ron," Harry said, his voice measured. Ron stayed silent, his body tense, still unsure if this was all some elaborate trap. He watched them both warily, his eyes darting between them.
Harry took a step forward. "There’s a way to verify everything you’ve told us, but it requires trust—something I know is hard to give right now."
Ron narrowed his eyes, suspicion creeping into his mind. "How are you going to manage that?"
This time, Hermione spoke, her voice calm but filled with an underlying urgency. "There’s a procedure. We can access your memories, but only with your consent. We need to see for ourselves if your memories are real or if they’ve been tampered with."
Ron clenched his fists, unsure of what to make of any of this. He didn’t answer, the silence stretching on as he tried to piece together what was happening.
Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione before turning back to Ron. "You can ask us anything—something only the real Harry and Hermione would know. We need to prove that we are who we say we are."
Ron stared at them for a moment, his mind racing. There were only a handful of things he could ask that no one else would know. He finally settled on a question that would push Harry to the limit. "Alright, then. During our second year, we followed the spiders into the Forbidden Forest. What happened?"
Harry’s face softened as the memory washed over him. "We found Aragog, the acromantula. And we were almost eaten by his children. But we were saved—by your father’s old Ford Anglia, the one that had gone wild in the forest." Harry’s lips twitched into a sad smile. "You nearly pissed yourself, Ron."
Ron blinked, his chest tightening. No one else knew that story. Just him, Harry, and Hermione. His suspicion started to crumble, but he needed to be sure.
His eyes shifted to Hermione. "In our fifth year," he began slowly, "what did you smell in the Amortentia potion?"
Hermione inhaled sharply, her eyes flickering with emotion. She hesitated, and then she replied softly, "Freshly cut grass, new parchment, and... the peppermint scent of your hair."
Ron’s breath caught in his throat; his legs suddenly weak. That had been their secret—something they’d shared privately during the Horcrux hunt. He had never told anyone else. A wave of emotion crashed over him, and before he could stop himself, tears streamed down his face.
He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He was overwhelmed—by disbelief, by grief, by the weight of this impossible situation.
Finally, through his tears, he whispered, "I’m ready."
Harry and Hermione exchanged a long look, a silent understanding passing between them. Whatever happened next, they would face it together.
Harry nodded; his voice steady as he spoke. "Let’s begin."