How it all began
Grey smoke
Sirens Too loud
“GET TO THE BASEMENT!”
children rushing by
“Hurry!”
“Where’s Tom?”
Another explosion
“TOMMY! TOM!”
“Help me, please!”
The cries grew fainter
“No-no! N-not the basement!”
“Come on, come on!”
Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain
Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain
Pain Pain Pain he slammed into the ground
Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain
Pain shot up his legs Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain
Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain
Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain
Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain
A building collapsed
dust debris
dust debris dust debris
A corpse dust debris
dust
dust debris
“Get out of the way!”
“Help! Someone help me!”
“Tom! Tommy, wait!”
a car exploded,
Sparks
Spark
Fire
Dust
Dust
Smoke
Debris
A body
Jim
Dead
Jim’s dead
A corpse
Harry Potter awoke with a jolt, his chest heaving as if he'd been sprinting through a maze of darkness. The room was shrouded in shadows, the only light coming from the moon filtering through the thin curtains. His breathing was ragged, every inhale a battle against the invisible weight pressing down on him.
“Harry?” A soft voice pierced through the fog of his fear. Ginny, his wife, stirred beside him, her hand instinctively reaching out to touch him. “Are you alright?”
Her touch was grounding, but it did little to dispel the chill that clung to his skin. Harry’s heart raced in his chest, each beat thunderous and erratic. He could feel the familiar sting of panic creeping up his spine, tightening around his throat.
Ginny propped herself up on one elbow, her eyes full of concern. “It’s okay, love. I’m here.”
Harry didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, where the shadows seemed to twist and shift like dark tendrils reaching for him. The room felt like it was closing in, the walls contracting with each frantic breath he took. He tried to control his breathing, but the more he struggled, the more the darkness seemed to seep into his mind.
“Breathe with me,” Ginny said softly, her voice a soothing balm against the storm within him. She placed her hand gently on his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat. “Inhale slowly... hold it... and exhale. You’re safe. We’re safe.”
Harry clenched his fists, his knuckles white as he fought to keep the terror at bay. Every exhale felt like a release from an unbearable pressure, but it was never enough. T
Ginny’s fingers moved in a rhythmic pattern on his chest, her touch steady and comforting. She started to hum a soft, familiar tune.
“Focus on the sound of my voice,” she murmured. “Nothing else matters right now. Just breathe. Just listen.”
Harry tried to follow her instructions, forcing his mind to focus on the warmth of her touch and the gentle hum. Slowly, the suffocating pressure began to ease, though the fear still lingered like a ghost at the edge of his consciousness.
Ginny’s presence was an anchor, pulling him back from the depths of his panic. She continued to hum, her voice a steady and calming force. Her other hand gently stroked his hair, each touch a reassurance that he was not alone.
As the minutes ticked by, the room’s oppressive weight lifted slightly, though Harry’s mind remained a tempest of unsettled thoughts. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically, but Ginny’s unwavering support was a beacon in the darkness.
Eventually, Harry’s breathing slowed to a more even rhythm, though his heart still raced occasionally. He looked at Ginny, her face etched with worry.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and strained.
Ginny smiled softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Anytime. You don’t have to face this alone.”
Harry lay still, Ginny’s warmth enveloping him like a shield against the chill of his fear. Her soft humming continued, a steady rhythm that he clung to like a lifeline. “I’m losing my mind, Ginny,” he murmured, his voice trembling. “I can’t stop these thoughts... these images. They’re too real.”
Ginny paused her humming, her expression a mix of worry and frustration. She pulled back slightly, her eyes searching his face. “I don’t think you’re going crazy, Harry. I think you’re just overwhelmed. But I can’t pretend I understand exactly what you’re going through.”
Harry looked at her, his gaze clouded with a mixture of desperation and hurt. “You try to help, but sometimes it feels like you’re just... pushing me to keep going when I’m barely holding on.”
Ginny’s face tightened, a flicker of defensiveness in her eyes. “I’m doing my best, Harry. It’s not like I’m perfect. I have my own struggles, too. But I can't afford to break down when you need me to be strong.”
“I know you’re trying,” Harry said quietly, his own frustration fading as he saw the pain behind her eyes. “It’s just... sometimes, it feels like there’s no end to this madness And when you’re pushing me to stay strong, it’s like you’re trying to pull me out of a hole that’s getting deeper and deeper.”
Ginny sighed, her shoulders slumping as she moved closer to him, her hand resting gently on his cheek. “I’m sorry, Harry. I don’t mean to make things harder. I just... I want to help. I want to be there for you, but I’m afraid I’m not enough.”
Harry reached up, his fingers closing around hers. “You’re more than enough. It’s just... it’s hard to feel like I’m in control of anything right now.”
Ginny nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. “I know. But we’ll get through this together. I may not always have the right words, and I may get frustrated, but I love you. And that has to count for something.”
For a moment, the room was quiet except for the soft hum of Ginny’s voice and the rhythmic sound of their breathing. It was a fragile peace, but it was enough. Harry closed his eyes, focusing on the warmth of Ginny’s body next to his and the steadiness of her presence.
“I’m scared, Ginny,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, and I’m terrified of what it means. Half the time I can’t even trust what I’m seeing.”
*_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The clock on the wall ticked away the final hours of the year, each second a reminder of the passing time. Hermione Granger, now an Unspeakable, sat hunched over her desk in the dimly lit office of the Department of Mysteries. The room was filled with the hum of magical machinery and the faint glow of enchanted lamps. Outside, the city was wrapped in a blanket of silence, the revelry of New Year's Eve a distant, muted echo.
Hermione’s fingers danced over parchment and quills as she reviewed the latest findings from her research on the Cruciatus Curse. Her work had been groundbreaking—attempting to separate the elements of magic as one might analyze elements in Muggle chemistry. It was a daunting task, but one she had pursued with relentless determination. The pursuit of knowledge had become her refuge, a way to stave off the weight of grief and the void left by Ron’s absence.
The walls of the office were adorned with abstract magical diagrams and arcane symbols, but Hermione’s gaze was fixed on her notes, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her robes, marked with the identifying insignia denoting her as a Mudblood, seemed to weigh heavier with each passing minute. The new regulations, enacted under the administration of the Minister Tom Riddle, had introduced a number of appalling restrictions on Muggleborns. It was quite ironic that he imposed these regulations, considering most of his voter base had been Muggleborns advocating for change and reform within the Ministry.
A soft knock on the door drew Hermione’s attention. She glanced up to find a young intern standing in the doorway, her face a mixture of anxiety and resolve.
“Miss Granger,” the intern said hesitantly, “I’ve finished the preliminary analysis on the Veritaserum samples. Should I bring them to you now?”
Hermione nodded, a tight smile of gratitude on her lips. “Yes, please. Thank you.”
As the intern left, Hermione’s gaze returned to her papers. Her mind wandered briefly to the celebrations she was missing. Harry and Ginny were undoubtedly surrounded by the Weasleys, their lives having moved on in ways hers had not. It was a pang of loneliness she had become accustomed to, a quiet ache that was part of the fabric of her daily existence. She didn’t visit the Weasleys anymore; every visit had become a painful reminder of Ron. The joy of those gatherings felt hollow, overshadowed by the memories of a man who was no longer there.
The clock ticked louder in the silence, marking the hours until the new year. Hermione’s eyes fell on a small, framed photograph on her desk. It was an old picture of Ron, smiling with his arm around her shoulders, a moment of happiness captured in time. It was a rare memory of laughter and joy, now a distant reminder of what had been lost.
Her fingers traced the edge of the photograph, her heart heavy with the realization that this was yet another New Year’s Eve spent alone. She had poured herself into her work, using it as a shield against the sorrow that seemed to follow her every step. Despite her accomplishments and the promotion, she was being considered for, the reality of her situation was an ever-present shadow. Her once fierce determination to fight for justice and reform had mellowed into a more cautious pragmatism by the harsh realities of the world which considered her scum for simply existing.
The intern returned, carrying a stack of reports. Hermione took them with a nod, her focus immediately shifting back to her work. The task at hand was a distraction, a way to keep her mind occupied and her heart guarded. She knew the promotion was a bittersweet prospect. Her work was being recognized, but she was acutely aware of the limitations imposed upon her by the new regime. Being a Mudblood in this new order meant facing constant challenges—restrictions on marriage, property ownership bans, and exorbitant taxes.
Hermione’s fingers moved mechanically, sorting through the reports, her mind a whirl of calculations and observations. As the minutes ticked by, Hermione allowed herself a brief pause, her gaze drifting to the window. The city lights twinkled in the distance, a stark contrast to the darkness that seemed to envelop her. The celebrations outside were a world away, a reminder of a life she had once known but could no longer fully embrace.
She allowed herself a moment of vulnerability, staring at the photograph of Ron. A soft sigh escaped her lips, mingling with the silent promise she had made to herself—to keep moving forward, no matter how heavy the burden. Her pragmatic approach to life had kept her going, but it also meant she avoided the difficult emotions she needed to confront.
As the clock approached midnight, marking the arrival of the new year, Hermione stood alone in her office, surrounded by the remnants of her work and the silence of her own thoughts. She took a deep breath, allowing herself a moment of quiet reflection before turning back to her papers.