Mr. Weasley was still in the hospital bed, wrapped in layer upon layer of white bandages that covered him from head to toe, like some ancient Egyptian mummy brought back from the desert tombs.
Judging by appearances alone—by the sheer amount of bandaging required, his injuries must have been extremely severe, perhaps even life-threatening.
Yet paradoxically, what Harry felt most strongly welling up in his chest wasn't fear or despair.
It was profound relief.
At least Mr. Weasley still had all his limbs intact.
Think of Kingsley with his missing leg. Think of that unknown witch on the first floor clutching her child, weeping over news of some irreversible loss. Think of the long, solemn row of stretchers lined up in the corridor just outside this very room, each bearing a sheet-covered body growing steadily colder with each passing minute.
The stark, unforgiving brutality of war was being laid absolutely bare before these young witches and wizards who were still in school.
To return alive from the battlefield, breathing and whole, was already an extraordinary stroke of luck.
But the Weasley children, standing around their father's bed in various states of shock, couldn't possibly feel that way right now.
Ginny leaned heavily into Fred's embrace, her shoulders were shaking as she sobbed softly into his chest.
George stood rigid at the foot of the bed, staring at his father intensely. His lips were trembling uncontrollably despite his attempt to maintain composure.
"Haven't lost any bits, have you, Dad?"
George finally managed to force out, his voice was cracking badly on the last word. It was clearly meant to be their usual brand of humor, but it emerged sounding hollow.
"Oh, I'm not entirely certain about that—"
Mr. Weasley managed a smile with difficulty. His voice was weak but held a certain warmth. "Seems like a particularly nasty cutting spell grazed right past my left ear. Perhaps it left a hole in it. Might improve my hearing, who knows."
George looked like he wanted to crack another joke in response. But his forced, trembling smile looked far more like crying than laughing. His face crumpled.
Ron opened his mouth, clearly wanting to say something to his father, but his mouth seemed to have suddenly gone completely clumsy, utterly unable to form clear words. He just stood there.
"Cheer up, children—"
Seeing that everyone around him was drowning in grief and shock, Mr. Weasley felt compelled to try to comfort his children.
"I bet the Ministry will cover all the medical expenses. We won't have to worry about that at least. Might even get a raise out of this—I've heard whispers about pay for those who fought today."
"Don't, Arthur. Please don't."
Mrs. Weasley sniffed hard, trying to hold back another wave of tears, but the sound that came out was more like a strangled wail.
"You don't need to think about any of that right now. You need to rest and heal. I—everything will be all right. Everything will work out fine."
"Of course it will—"
Mr. Weasley said as gently as his hoarse voice would allow, his bandaged hand was finding hers and squeezing weakly.
"You're absolutely right, Molly dear. I do feel rather tired now, actually. The potion they gave me is starting to work, I think."
Harry knew that he shouldn't disturb Mr. Weasley's rest. But Harry couldn't suppress the terrible fear that was boiling and churning in his chest like acid, eating away at his composure with every passing second.
"Mr. Weasley—"
Harry took two steps forward, closer to the bed. Ron's reproachful expression made Harry feel deeply ashamed of his selfishness. But he asked anyway, because he had to know.
"Did you—did you see—"
The words were stuck in his throat.
"You want to ask about Sirius, don't you, Harry?"
The perceptive Mr. Weasley said it for him.
"I don't know his current status, I'm sorry. I did see him though, while I was dueling Antonin Dolohov. He seemed to be chasing after someone."
'Chasing someone?!'
Harry's heart immediately leapt into his throat. That frustratingly vague answer opened up far too many terrible possibilities.
'Was Sirius alive or dead?'
Harry felt like he was being slowly driven mad by not knowing.
Hermione who was standing beside him, tugged gently at Harry's sleeve, signaling with her eyes that it was time to leave.
Mr. Weasley, who had obediently taken the pain-relieving and healing potions soon fell into a deep sleep. His breathing became slow and regular.
Mrs. Weasley remained in her chair, carefully and tenderly cleaning away the dried blood that had crusted around his eyes with a damp cloth.
None of the Weasley children showed even the slightest intention of leaving the room. They had clearly made the unspoken decision to stay right there, keeping watch over their father until he woke again, however long that took.
"We should go, Harry—"
Hermione said very softly.
"Let them have some private time together as a family."
The two of them quietly left the room, and Hermione carefully, silently closed the door behind them, leaving the Weasley family alone with their grief and relief.
...
Sounds of grief, sobbing, wailing, desperate prayers still filled their ears from all directions as they stood in the corridor.
The hospital had become a cathedral of suffering.
A steady, seemingly endless stream of wounded were still being brought into the hospital by Apparition, and the Hit Wizards escorting them back to safety wore expressions of hatred on nearly every face.
After completing their brief escort duties, they immediately, without hesitation returned to the active battlefield.
Harry stood motionless and watched as a young Hit Wizard from the Ministry brought his severely injured companion into a nearby room, then pressed his face desperately against the glass window of the door, peering inside with his hands cupped around his eyes to see better.
His whole body was tense with hope.
But after only two agonizingly long minutes—the attending Healer emerged with a professionally apologetic expression that said everything.
And yet another sheet-covered stretcher appeared in the already-crowded corridor.
The Hit Wizard stood frozen for several seconds, staring at the covered body. Then he sobbed, his shoulders were heaving perhaps three or four times before he violently wiped his tears away with angry, jerky movements. His face showed an expression of terrible determination.
Then he walked a few steps and disapparated with a crack.
Harry stared blankly at those shrouded stretchers, unable to look away. His imagination, always too vivid, was torturing him with horrible visions.
He kept imagining that if he walked over and pulled back one of those white cloths—his godfather Sirius would be lying there underneath.
He had never, in his entire life, been so utterly terrified of something happening.
Hermione understood the torment raging inside Harry's mind and heart, could see it clearly on his face. But she found she couldn't quite summon the emotional strength to comfort him properly, couldn't find the right words.
After leaving the room, she slowly slid down with her back pressed against the closed door until she was sitting on the floor, one hand covering her mouth. She sat there watching the rushing Healers with eyes full of helpless anguish while tears streamed down her face.
The feeling was so utterly, completely helpless.
Unable to do anything. Unable to help anyone who was suffering. Unable to stop the tide of wounded and dead.
The sheer cruelty of war—its randomness, its waste, its disregard for who deserved to live or die had completely shattered her psychological defenses.
"I have to go see."
Harry said suddenly, his voice cut through her spiraling thoughts.
'Go see? Go see what?'
Hermione's tear-filled gaze slowly lifted to fall on Harry's deathly pale face. Even with her normally sharp, quick mind that could solve almost any puzzle, she couldn't immediately grasp what Harry actually meant to do.
But as soon as understanding clicked into place—as soon as she realized what he was implying, she shot up from the ground with an audible gasp of horror, staring at Harry in complete disbelief.
"Are you mad, Harry? Have you completely lost your mind?"
"I have to go see for myself, Hermione."
Harry was genuinely surprised by how calm and steady his own voice sounded. It didn't match the chaos inside him at all.
He looked directly at Hermione, meeting her eyes.
"I have to help Sirius. Help everyone who's still fighting. I can make a real difference—I know I can. I've—I've been trained for this. Professor Watson has been training us specifically for combat situations. You and I, we've learned things—"
"But we're just underage young wizards, Harry! We're still students!"
Hermione gripped Harry's arm tightly with both hands.
"Sirius would never, ever agree to this—he absolutely won't thank you for throwing yourself into danger!"
"You don't understand, Hermione—"
Harry didn't argue further or try to explain. He just shook his head gently.
His mind was made up.
Hermione knew that Harry was being reckless again, was about to do something monumentally stupid and dangerous that he'd convinced himself was necessary.
She glanced anxiously back at Mr. Weasley's closed door, her mind was racing through options. Should she call out for Mrs. Weasley? Or shout loud enough to draw Professor McGonagall's attention from a few rooms away?
But in that moment of distraction—Harry suddenly lunged forward.
He yanked his arm free from Hermione's grasp with a sharp twist, and before she could possibly react or grab him again, he rushed directly toward a Ministry Hit Wizard in the corridor.
The man had just finished escorting back wounded and was clearly preparing to return to the battlefield.
"HARRY, NO!"
Hermione's scream still rang sharply in Harry's ears as the world suddenly spun violently before his eyes.
Then he was there.
The thick, overwhelming stench of blood and burned flesh immediately made Harry's stomach churn. He fought down the urge to vomit.
In this hellish world of torn flesh, collapsed buildings, and screaming wizards, he hadn't yet properly observed his surroundings or gotten himself oriented when something in the distance caught his attention.
A dazzling red sun seemed to be rising on the horizon.
Meanwhile.....
The very moment he heard Sirius Black's threatening voice behind him, Lucius Malfoy felt a comfortable ease spreading through his anxious heart like warm wine.
The Dark Lord was watching the battlefield in secret. He had to execute his assigned orders flawlessly, had to at least appear to be trying his absolute best.
What exactly was hidden in Bellatrix's vault that made the Dark Lord so unusually anxious? So desperate to recover it even in the middle of a battle?
For Lucius, this question required only a brief moment's thought to answer with reasonable confidence.
It must be something exactly like that diary—that cursed diary the Dark Lord had entrusted to his care all those years ago.
Lucius couldn't quite bring himself to imagine that the Dark Lord had actually created two—or possibly even more—of those profoundly evil objects.
But he knew well what they were for, what purpose they served. To truly destroy the Dark Lord permanently, one must first locate and destroy all the Horcruxes the Dark Lord had made.
Lucius's original plan had been relatively simple: pretend he couldn't find the cup among all the scattered galleons and debris, then secretly pass the precise location information along afterward, letting Bryan Watson destroy the Dark Lord's Horcrux.
Bryan Watson knew about the Dark Lord's Horcruxes. Two years ago, at the Leaky Cauldron, he had warned him about it.
But unexpectedly, the Dark Lord had spoken directly in his mind, telling him the cup's location. That had foiled his plan.
That had completely foiled his careful plan. He couldn't pretend not to see something when Voldemort had literally pointed it out.
Fortunately, his earlier shout at Bellatrix had worked beautifully. It had successfully drawn Sirius Black to him, just as he'd hoped.
But along with the relief came a heavy shadow of gloom.
Sirius didn't know anything about his private contact with Watson. Which meant Sirius would do absolutely everything in his power to kill him here and now.
And Lucius knew that his magical combat abilities simply weren't sufficient to handle someone like Sirius with any ease.
"Lucius Malfoy."
The still-robed Malfoy turned slowly. His voice was intentionally hoarse, disguised.
"Ah, yes. I know that name. The head of the prestigious Malfoy family. Quite a respectable wizard in proper society."
"Hmph!"
Sirius laughed coldly.
"Don't play dumb with me, Malfoy. I recognize your voice—"
His sharp gray eyes glanced down at the scattered gold galleons and the golden objects now partially exposed at Malfoy's feet, his expression was contemptuous.
"What, is this the mission Voldemort gave you and Bellatrix? Dig up some extra gold from the ruins and take it back to your master like loyal dogs?"
"How dare you speak the Dark Lord's name so casually, Sirius Black!"
Lucius Malfoy, hidden under the concealing black hood, shouted in 'rage,' his voice rose to an offended pitch.
"I'll make you understand the price of disrespecting the Dark Lord!"
With that declaration, Malfoy stepped over the pile of gold and precious objects he'd just dug up and charged with apparently aggressive intent toward Sirius!
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