The doors to the Great Hall slammed shut behind us—loud, final. The sound echoed down the corridor and then seemed to settle somewhere inside me, heavy and immovable. Not just in my ears. Deeper. As if the walls themselves had absorbed it and were now holding their breath.
Ron stopped short. He turned to me, face pale, eyes wide, and for a second, he looked years younger.
"Did—did that actually just happen?" He asked, voice rough, almost like he was forcing the words out through grit. "Tell me that didn't just happen."
I couldn't. I couldn't say a word. My throat had tightened, my mouth dry as parchment. My thoughts weren't even thoughts anymore, just a frantic, spiralling whirl, looping over and over—he was here. He was actually here. Inside Hogwarts.
You-Know-Who walked into the Great Hall.
It defied everything I thought I knew. All the enchantments, all the ancient wards that were supposed to protect us—Professor Dumbledore had said so, hadn't he? So had Professor McGonagall, even the portraits. They'd always spoken as though Hogwarts was impenetrable, a kind of sacred place.
But it wasn't. Not anymore.
We'd seen him. Felt him. The room had gone colder just by him existing in it.
And the Death Eaters… They hadn't just come to kill, or conquer, or demand obedience.
They'd come to put on a show.
"They're playing with us," I murmured. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else—distant, small. "This isn't just power. It's theatre."
Ron made a rough sound in the back of his throat and dragged a shaking hand through his hair. "They're sick," he spat. "Absolutely mental—Harry—" His voice broke. He turned, eyes scanning the empty corridor like he might find Harry standing there. "What are they doing to him now?"
I didn't answer.
Dobby had tried to warn me. He'd come to me in the corridor, frantic, hiccupping, hands twisting his tea towel in knots as he sobbed.
I'd believed him. I'd listened. But even then, I hadn't imagined this.
Professor Snape had dragged Harry into the Hall.
"Did you see him?" I whispered. "Harry. He looked like—"
Ron's jaw tensed. "He looked like he'd already lost," he said, and then, sharper, like it made him angry to say it out loud, "But he hasn't."
He was right. But that didn't stop the image from pressing into my memory—Harry, standing there with pained eyes, like he'd already been taken apart and was still somehow standing on instinct alone.
And then he'd seen him. You-Know-Who. And I watched it happen—watched something fracture in Harry. Quietly. Like a deep, invisible crack across a stone floor. Not a scream. Just a collapse inside.
"He said Colin's name," I whispered.
Ron turned sharply to me. His expression twisted. "He thought they'd killed him."
"Or," I said, voice catching, "or they wanted Harry to think so. It's worse, in a way."
Ron shook his head, like he couldn't believe what was coming out of either of our mouths. "He's in his head again. Just like before. Like with Sirius."
"I know." And I did. It was the same pattern. The same manipulation. Twist the truth, feed the fear. Confuse him. Break him.
Ron's eyes flickered down. "He had the Mark, Hermione. On his arm. I saw it. We saw it."
I stared at the floor, my hands clenched. "I saw it too."
"I mean—are we sure it wasn't a trick? An illusion?"
"I don't think so," I said slowly, carefully. "It didn't look like anything magical. It looked… branded."
Ron's voice dropped. "Then it's true."
"It doesn't mean he chose it," I snapped before I could stop myself. "You saw him. He looked… ashamed. He was clutching his sleeve like he couldn't bear it."
Ron didn't argue.
Silence settled between us.
"They're trying to unmake him," I said at last. "Piece by piece. Not just his body, but his mind. His memories. They're trying to pull him apart from the inside."
"And make him what?" Ron asked hollowly. "One of them?"
I looked up at him, meeting his eyes. "No. They want to make him nothing."
Because nothing was easier to control.
Ron swallowed. "And now they've made him kill."
I flinched. Justin.
Justin, on the ground, eyes wide, unmoving. You-Know-Who's voice, dark and coaxing. "Kill him."
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to stay steady.
"He didn't want to," I said. "You could see that. He was fighting it. His hands were shaking. He was begging."
"Oh, Merlin," I breathed. The words escaped before I could think. They felt thin and useless in the air. "He picked a Muggle-born on purpose."
Ron's face drained of colour so fast I thought he might be sick. "To prove he's not one of us anymore," he said quietly.
"No," I murmured. "To force him to kill."
It made my stomach turn just saying it aloud. But the truth was there—undeniable and horrible.
Justin's scream rang through my head again. Not like in real time—more like a memory burnt into the inside of my skull. The way he clutched at his chest, eyes wide, knees buckling beneath him before he hit the table. Hannah's shriek of his name had cracked. Ernie had just stared, frozen, like his mind couldn't catch up to what his eyes had seen.
And Harry…
Harry was still. Not calm—never calm—but rigid, like someone frozen in a moment of impossible choice. There'd been something terrible in his eyes. A conflict. A kind of pain I didn't have words for.
My chest tightened. "I'm Muggle-born," I said suddenly, and the moment I did, I regretted it. The words rang far too loud in the silence. Like a challenge. Or a confession.
Ron looked at me, his expression drawn. "If they had Colin," he said grimly, "and now Justin…"
"They'll come for you," he finished, his voice like gravel.
I didn't argue. I couldn't. Because he was right.
But that thought—it sat like a stone inside me. Not fear exactly, not yet. Something colder. Heavier. Like dread curling through my veins.
It wasn't like the kind of fear you get during a battle, when adrenaline pulls your limbs into motion even before your brain has caught up. This was slower. Thicker. Like trying to breathe under ice.
"They've got a list," I whispered, more to myself than to Ron. "The Carrows. The fifth-years mentioned it. A list of Muggle-borns still at Hogwarts."
He moved closer, his voice firm but gentle. "Hermione—listen to me. We won't let them get to you. I swear."
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to nod and feel that comfort settle in. But my heart wasn't cooperating. It kept hammering against my ribs.
He can't protect you from everything. None of us could. Not when the people in charge were the very ones who wanted us gone.
I shut my eyes for a second and forced myself to focus. To think. Emotion was dangerous now. It could cloud judgement and get people hurt. Or worse.
"We need to know where they're taking Harry," I said, voice low and urgent. "If we don't do something soon, we might not get another chance."
Ron frowned. "What, follow them out? Like right now?"
"Yes," I said. "We have the Invisibility Cloak. If we move fast, we might be able to track them. If we know where they're holding him, we can plan properly."
His face scrunched like I'd said something unhinged. "Hermione—that's mental. Did you see Harry earlier? It looked like he was barely holding it together. Like—like something inside him was fighting him. If You-Know-Who's in his head, he'll see us. He'll know."
I bit the inside of my cheek. He wasn't wrong. But doing nothing felt worse. Like standing still while the world cracked open.
"Then we'll confuse him," I said. "We'll use the Polyjuice Potion. Transform into people he wouldn't recognise—Muggles, maybe, or people not from Hogwarts at all. He won't be able to tell it's us if he's never seen who we're pretending to be."
Ron stared at me. "You want us to use Polyjuice now? Hermione, it takes a month to brew! We don't exactly have that kind of time!"
"I know," I snapped, before softening. "I know. But it's the only proper plan I've got right now, and we can't just sit here while they—while they do whatever they're doing to him."
Ron rubbed the back of his neck. "You reckon the Order could help? Get hair samples from outside? Muggles even?"
"Maybe," I said. "We've still got a few contacts who haven't gone underground. Kingsley might help, or Tonks."
"We could sneak into Hogsmeade," I added, more to fill the space. "Use one of the old passageways. The map's still working."
Ron gave a dry humorous laugh. "So now it's breaking rules, brewing illegal potions, smuggling hair out of a village, and impersonating strangers. Classic Hermione."
Despite everything, I smiled faintly. "It's not funny."
"Feels a bit funny. You've gone full Fred and George."
The smile vanished.
"Should we loop in the DA?" he asked. "Let them help?"
I hesitated. That was the hardest part. My brain said yes. More help meant more chances of success. But my gut twisted at the thought. One of them could get caught. They could talk. Not on purpose—but under Cruciatus? Or Veritaserum?
"I don't know," I admitted. "Every person we add increases the risk. They'd be targets the moment they're involved."
Ron nodded slowly. "True. But I dunno, Hermione… maybe they'd rather do something. I would. Just sitting here feels like—I don't know—being back in Umbridge's office. Knowing something's wrong and not being able to stop it."
That hit hard.
"Yeah," I whispered. "Exactly that."
My arms folded across my chest, more for comfort than anything else. The corridor suddenly felt colder.
"We need time," I said. "To brew. To gather supplies. To plan. Voldemort's not going to stop. Every second we wait, we lose ground."
Ron didn't say anything at first. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again, as if whatever he was about to say needed to be weighed first. Then, with a glance around and a sudden urgency to his voice, he leaned in towards me.
"I've got an idea," he murmured, barely louder than a breath. "It's a bit risky—and it won't be easy to get—but I think it might help. We could try Snape's storeroom. Or maybe Madam Pomfrey's. Depends on where we'd have better luck."
My heart was still racing, thudding against my ribs like it was trying to warn me of something. I tried to keep my voice steady.
"What sort of idea?" I asked cautiously.
Ron hesitated for just a moment longer, then gave a glance over his shoulder before replying in a hurried whisper. "If… if You-Know-Who can see through Harry—if he's really in there, in his head—then maybe the best thing we can do is block him out."
I frowned, unsure what he was getting at.
Ron leaned even closer, eyes flicking to mine. "What if we gave Harry a Sleeping Draught? A strong one. Something to knock him out completely."
I blinked. "You mean—put him to sleep on purpose?"
"Yeah," he said quickly. "I mean—if he's unconscious, You-Know-Who can't see through him, can he? Can't listen in, or spy, or make Harry do anything. If he's asleep, he's safe. It gives us time to figure out what to do next."
For a moment, I just stared at him. Not because it was foolish—but because it actually made sense. It made a terriblekind of sense.
It might work.
Harry was already on the verge of collapse. He hadn't even seemed properly awake when Professor Snape dragged him away. His eyes had barely focused on anything. If we caught up with them quickly enough—if we got the potion into him before Professor Snape locked him away somewhere—we might be able to give Harry a chance. Just a few hours. Enough time to breathe.
"That's actually… that's brilliant," I breathed. "We can't let Harry see where he is. Or hear what we're saying. He's too exposed—too open."
Ron gave a quick nod. "Exactly! We knock him out; they lose their way in. But we've got to be fast—Snape's already taken him out of the Hall."
I glanced around the room, my mind racing. The Great Hall had quietened, but it was the sort of quiet that sits heavily over everything. Unnatural. Like the air had changed.
You-Know-Who had vanished from the staff table. The Death Eaters, strangely casual, were gathered like a pack of smug spectators reliving the last act of a play they'd thoroughly enjoyed. Some of them were grinning. Others looked bored—as if nothing about what had just happened was remarkable. As if torment was routine.
No one noticed us.
Most of the students were still frozen. Some whispered in low voices, trying to process it. Others simply stared ahead blankly. No one touched the food, which still sat steaming on the plates—eggs, toasts, sausages, waffles and pancakes, untouched as if they were props on a stage that had abruptly lost its meaning.
And in my mind, Harry's face lingered.
That broken look.
Like something inside him had shattered quietly, leaving cracks across everything.
Then Ron moved. His hand slipped under the table and pulled out the Invisibility Cloak, crumpled and hidden beneath his jumper. He met my eyes—his face serious, more so than I'd seen it in weeks—and gave a single nod.
We didn't need words. I understood.
He was telling me, Let's go. Now.
I slid off the bench carefully, every movement deliberate. My legs felt shaky. Ron let his fork fall to the floor with a loud clatter—a distraction. It echoed through the hall, but not a single head turned.
Nobody cared.
Under the table, we slipped the cloak over ourselves. It was cramped—warm from being folded up—but familiar. We'd done this so many times now, our movements instinctive. I huddled close to Ron as we stood, adjusting the fabric just right.
The enormous doors to the Great Hall loomed ahead. With a breath held between us, we crept forward.
Every step felt like a challenge. I half-expected someone—one of the Carrows, or Bellatrix, or Merlin forbid You-Know-Who himself—to spot a ripple in the air and stop us. But no one did.
Ron's hand found my wrist and squeezed gently through the cloak. Just like that, we slipped into the corridor beyond.
The stillness struck me immediately.
The air out here was colder.
Then—
Retching.
A horrible, choking sound echoed from further down the corridor.
I froze, and Ron stopped beside me.
The sound came again—dry, gasping, desperate. Someone being sick. Badly.
We followed the noise, moving silently. My heart was hammering now—not from fear of being caught, but from a deeper, sharper fear. A kind that made my hands tremble under the cloak.
We turned the corner.
There he was.
Harry was hunched over against the wall, one hand braced against the stone, the other clenched at his stomach. His entire body shook as he heaved again, violently. He looked like he might collapse.
Professor Snape stood beside him. Still. Rigid. His arms were folded, his face unreadable—but not indifferent. He was watching Harry with that same dark, calculating stare he always wore when trying to piece something together.
And for once, I didn't know what he was thinking. Or what side he was on.
I watched Harry retch again, and I felt something inside me clench so tight I thought I might break in two.
He was in pain.
Real, human pain.
A Death Eater was speaking to Professor Snape, low-voiced and stiff. I couldn't catch a word of it—too far away. There was something clipped in the way he spoke, like he didn't quite trust Professor Snape or didn't like what he'd just seen.
Professor Snape didn't reply. He stood completely still, arms folded, face unreadable. That strange, closed expression he always wore—like the mask he never took off. The Death Eater muttered something else, gave Harry one last uneasy glance, then turned and walked off, boots clicking sharply against the stone.
Professor Snape's back remained turned.
Harry was kneeling now. He looked… broken. That's the only word I could think of. His skin was greyish and slick with sweat, hair stuck to his forehead. His breathing was shallow, erratic.
I bit my lip. I couldn't just watch this happen. Not again.
I leaned closer to Ron and whispered, "We're not going to get near Harry while Snape's standing there. We'll have to split up."
Ron shot me a look. "Split up? What do you mean?"
"You distract Snape—get him away from Harry for just a minute. I'll go for the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey's cupboard is closer than the dungeons, and I know where she keeps the stronger sleeping draughts. Second shelf on the left—purple wax seal."
Ron stared at me like I'd just asked him to duel a dragon. "And how exactly am I supposed to distract Snape? Ask if he's moisturising his hair these days?"
I gave him a sharp look. "Set off a firework. Knock something over. Trip a charm or set off one of the old security wards. You grew up with Fred and George—you mean to tell me you didn't learn anything?"
He winced. "I learnt a lot of things. Most of them ended with Mum yelling and a trip to St Mungo's."
My jaw tightened. "Then channel that. I'm serious, Ron."
"Brilliant. Certain death it is, then," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair.
But then—before we could even move—Harry gave a horrible, strangled noise and crumpled sideways. Just like that. No warning.
"Potter," Snape said sharply, stepping forward—but Harry didn't stir.
Ron looked at me once and then slipped out from under the cloak.
My heart leapt into my throat—but I stayed quiet, pressing myself flat against the corridor wall.
Ron moved quickly, quietly. I saw his wand in his hand. He disappeared down the passage opposite, taking a sharp right towards the gallery hall. I counted the seconds in my head, palms clammy.
Three… four… five…
Then—
BANG!
A flash of blinding light exploded from the far corridor. Sparks shot into the air, and somewhere overhead, one of the old talking portraits shrieked:
"Unwanted disturbance! They're at it again! Help! HEEEELP!"
Snape whipped around. For a moment, I thought he'd see Ron—or worse, come charging back this way. But no. He hesitated for half a second—then swept off after the sound, robes flaring behind him like wings.
I didn't waste time. I darted forward, crouched low, keeping as quiet as possible. The cloak dragged just slightly behind me, but I moved too fast to worry about that.
Harry was curled on the floor, completely still. His breathing sounded wet, rattling slightly in his chest. I wanted to say his name. I wanted to touch him. But I didn't dare.
I kept going.
The side passage to the Hospital Wing was barely lit. I slipped through the narrow door and into the dim corridor. No sign of Madam Pomfrey. The curtains around two beds were drawn—Colin and Neville, I guessed—but otherwise, silence.
The cupboard door was locked, of course.
"Alohomora," I whispered.
The latch clicked.
I pulled it open with trembling fingers. Bottles lined the shelves, neatly labelled. My eyes flicked over them, searching. Draught of Peace… Dreamless Sleep… Calming Elixir…
There.
Strong Sleeping Draught. A thick, purplish-green liquid in a stoppered bottle, sealed with deep wax and marked in tight, slanted handwriting:
Use with caution. Maximum potency. Do not exceed the recommended dosage.
Perfect.
I slipped it into my robes, shut the cupboard, and bolted back down the corridor.
Ron was already crouched by Harry when I returned. His face was flushed, his eyes wide—but he was grinning.
"I saw Peeves. I told him that one of the suits of armour wanted to challenge him," he whispered proudly. "He's gone completely mental—started throwing stuff at it until it retaliated, came charging towards him and hit a wall."
I shook my head. "You're ridiculous. Come on—help me."
Harry was limp. His head lolled slightly as Ron hooked an arm beneath his shoulders, and I pulled the cloak up over all three of us. The bottle weighed heavily in my pocket.
"Where are we taking him?" Ron whispered, still breathless. "Back to our dormitory?"
I shook my head at once. "No. That's the first place he'd recognise."
And that terrified me more than I could explain. If Harry woke up in the Gryffindor common room—saw the fire, the tapestries, the dormitory steps—if he saw it through Harry's eyes… it would all be over.
I drew a shaky breath. "The seventh floor. Room of Requirement. It's the only place we can risk."
Ron didn't argue, which surprised me. He only nodded once, and between us, we shifted Harry more securely under the Invisibility Cloak. He was dead weight in our arms—completely unresponsive—his limbs awkward and cold, like carrying someone under the Full Body-Bind Curse.
We moved slowly through the castle, hugging the walls, keeping to the darkest corridors. Every sound made my heart leap into my throat. At one point I thought I heard footsteps coming from the stairwell, but when we paused, breath held tight in our chests, nothing came.
The castle was far too quiet.
That wasn't comforting.
No ghosts. No professors. Not even Filch's lantern bobbing in the distance. Just shadows and the eerie stillness that had spread over Hogwarts since You-Know-Who's rise.
When we finally reached the seventh-floor corridor, I nearly sobbed in relief.
I took Harry from Ron, supporting his shoulders while Ron watched the hall. My hands were trembling as I walked past the stretch of blank wall once, twice, three times—thinking hard, concentrating with everything I had.
A safe place. We need a safe place to hide Harry. Somewhere You-Know-Who won't recognise. Somewhere with no windows, no clues, and no memories. Somewhere warm. Somewhere hidden. Somewhere he can rest.
The door appeared—slowly, as if even the castle was tired.
I pulled it open and we stepped through. The door melted behind us with a soft whisper of stone on stone.
Inside, the room was dimly lit—a soft golden glow, like candlelight without any actual flame. It had shaped itself into a small, windowless space. Clean. Spare. It reminded me a bit of the Hospital Wing, but quieter and more private. There was a single bed in the centre, low and narrow. A table and two chairs sat near the wall. A sink. A folded blanket at the foot of the bed.
The quiet hit me all at once—heavy and complete. My ears rang from the sudden stillness.
We lowered Harry onto the bed together, trying not to jostle him too much. His head lolled against the pillow. I brushed the hair off his forehead, carefully avoiding the scar, and tucked the blanket around his shoulders. His face looked drawn, pale in the soft light. Not peaceful—just empty. Hollowed out.
He didn't stir.
My fingers fumbled in my robes until I found the bottle—the sleeping draught I'd taken from Madam Pomfrey's cupboard. I unstoppered it slowly, my thumb tight on the wax seal. A soft, bitter scent rose from the bottle—something earthy and metallic, with a trace of something darker beneath it. Not quite comforting.
"Will it hurt him?" Ron asked quietly from behind me. I hadn't realised he was still standing that close.
"No," I said, my voice thinner than I wanted it to be. "It's strong, but it's meant for patients who can't sleep at all. It just… slows everything down."
Ron said nothing.
I poured a small measure into the cork lid, leaned close, and held it gently to Harry's mouth. The liquid disappeared down his throat.
We waited.
After a few seconds, his breathing began to change. It deepened—still uneven, but slower now. Softer. His hands, which had been clenched tight against his chest, loosened slightly.
"Will it keep him out for long?" Ron asked. His voice was hushed—like if he spoke too loudly, Harry might vanish entirely.
"Long enough," I murmured. "It has to."
But I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure of anything anymore.
I sank into the nearest chair, suddenly drained. My body felt like it had run ten miles, even though we hadn't gone far. My heart was still hammering, and my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
How had it come to this?
We were hiding Harry—from himself, from the castle, and from the people who loved him. From the world.
And from Him. Always from Him.
I looked at Harry lying there, pale and still and quiet, and felt a strange twist in my chest. He'd saved us all so many times. And now we didn't even know how to save him.
"We may need to blindfold him. Just in case," I said quietly, already pulling out my wand. My fingers were trembling slightly, though I tried not to let it show.
Ron looked at me like I'd suggested setting fire to Harry's bed. "Are you serious? Hermione, he hasn't even got his glasses—he's barely able to walk, let alone spy on us!"
"I know," I said quickly, "I know that. But it's not just about what he can see. Think about it—he could recognise our shapes and hear our voices. We can't afford the risk."
Ron made a face, half-agreement, half-dread. "I mean… yeah. I can always spot Snape's greasy outline from about three corridors off."
I let out a sharp, nervous breath—half a laugh, if I was being generous—but it didn't ease the pressure pressing down on my chest.
We looked over at Harry. He was unconscious. Curled in on himself like someone bracing for another blow, his brow furrowed in pain even in sleep. I couldn't tell if it was from the aftershocks of the Cruciatus Curse or something deeper. Maybe both.
The silence stretched.
I sat down beside him and folded my arms tightly. I hated how useless I felt. I'd always had a plan—or at least a book to consult. But right now, there was nothing. No clear path forward. Only dread.
Ron broke the silence. "If we're planning on hiding out here for a bit… we'll need stuff. From the dorm. You know. Supplies. The map, maybe your books—whatever we can get."
I nodded slowly, though the thought filled me with unease. "I don't like it. The minute they realise Harry's missing, they'll start searching the castle. They'll turn it upside down."
"Which is exactly why we need to be prepared," Ron said. He knelt beside Harry, brushing some of the sweat-damp hair from his forehead. "We don't know what we're up against."
"I just wish…" I hesitated, then sighed. "I wish we didn't have to leave him. Even for a second."
"I know." Ron's voice was softer now. "But we can't stay here with nothing. No potions, no information, no food—not even a plan. That's not how we survive. That's how we get caught."
I hated that he was right.
He often was, when he stopped to think about it.
I looked down at Harry again. His breathing was shallow, lips cracked. He hadn't stirred since we gave him the sleeping draught. I hoped it was working properly. I hoped You-Know-Who couldn't reach him here, inside this room.
But there was always that doubt, wasn't there?
The Dark Mark. That vile thing on his arm. If You-Know-Who could use it—if he could find him through it—we didn't have long.
Then Ron straightened up a little, as though something had occurred to him. "What about Dobby?"
"What?" I turned to him.
"Dobby," he repeated. "Like last night, remember? When you called for him to find the cloak? Maybe he could fetch our stuff. He's a free elf now. We could ask."
For a moment, I just stared at him.
Of course. Of course.
I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it. My mind was so tangled with fear and plans and worse-case scenarios that I'd completely overlooked the most obvious solution.
"That's… brilliant," I breathed. "Honestly, Ron, that's—why didn't I think of that?"
He grinned, bashful. "Must be the trauma. Can't expect your genius firing on all cylinders."
I gave him a tired smile. "Let's hope it kicks in soon."
The humour faded quickly, though. We both glanced back at Harry.
There was so much more we didn't know—about what had happened to him, about what they'd done. About what they expected him to become.
And if we were going to help him, we'd need more than just sleeping draughts and clever spells.
We'd need hope. And time. And the kind of courage I wasn't entirely sure we had left.
But for now, I squeezed my wand a little tighter and whispered, "I'll call for Dobby."