The castle's corridors buzzed with a strange mix of awe and unease. Word of the monsters destruction had spread — and with it, the arrival of parents. Through the open arches of the hospital wing came a flurry of voices, footsteps, and tears.
Molly Weasley burst through first, followed by Arthur, their faces pale from the Floo journey.
Behind them appeared Bill, still in his Gringotts robes, and Charlie, smelling faintly of dragonfire and ash. They had portkeyed directly to Hogsmeade and run the rest of the way.
At the far end of the ward, Ginny Weasley sat propped up in bed, awake but trembling. Her face was pale as parchment, her hands fidgeting in her lap.
"Ginny!" Molly's cry broke every silence. She rushed forward, crushing her daughter in an embrace so fierce that Ginny whimpered, then clung back with both hands.
Arthur followed more slowly, his expression a swirl of gratitude and devastation. "You're all right," he whispered. "You're all right, sweetheart."
Ginny's voice was a breath. "I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't mean—"
"Shh." He pressed her hand. "No apologies. Not now."
Bill stepped closer, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. "We came as soon as we got the owl," he said softly. "Mum nearly hexed the fireplace apart."
Charlie managed a thin, teary grin. "You gave us quite the scare, little sister."
But the warmth in the air fractured when Ron appeared in the doorway, pale and shaking, escorted by Professor McGonagall.
Molly's head turned — and the joy in her eyes hardened into fury.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley."
The tone alone froze him in place.
"You mean to tell me," she said, voice trembling with controlled rage, "that you knew your sister was missing, that the school was on alert, and your first thought was to go running after a thousand-year-old monster? With Lockhart?"
"Mum, I—"
Arthur stepped in, his voice low and sharp. "Not another word. Not one, Ronald. Do you have any idea what you put this family through? We thought we were going to bury two of our children this morning."
Ron's face crumpled. "I just wanted to save her—"
"Save her?" Bill cut in, disbelief flaring. "You nearly got yourself killed! Ginny too! You're supposed to protect her, not join her in danger!"
Charlie crossed his arms, jaw tight. "You're lucky the professors found you before the beast did."
Professor McGonagall watched, her expression stern but silent. This was a family matter, and she would not overstep a parent's right to discipline their child, no matter what school punishments had already been levied.
Arthur shook his head slowly. "Sorry doesn't undo what's done, Ronald. You put lives at risk — your own, your sister's, your classmates'. You thought you knew better than everyone who tried to protect you. That's not courage. That's pride. And pride kills."
Ron's face crumpled, tears spilling freely. "I just wanted to help—"
"Help?" Bill's voice broke through, incredulous. "You nearly made Mum bury two children instead of one."
Charlie crossed his arms, his expression tight. "You think you're grown enough to fight monsters, but you can't even write home when your sister's missing?"
Molly stepped forward — no longer furious, but shaking with grief and exhaustion. "You're grounded, Ronald. The entire summer. No flying, no friends, no leaving the house. You'll spend every day helping me and your father rebuild the Burrow — and you'll send letters of apology to Professor Dumbledore and every teacher who risked their lives because of your foolishness."
Ron nodded, voice barely a whisper. "Yes, Mum."
"And you'll be writing apologies to your sister every week," Arthur added, "to remind her that you love her — not by risking your life, but by earning back her trust."
Ginny looked up from her bed, eyes still red but soft. "I forgive you," she said quietly. "But don't ever do it again."
Ron's voice cracked. "I won't. I swear."
Arthur exhaled slowly, then drew Ron into a rough, brief hug — not forgiving yet, but holding on all the same. "We'll talk more at home," he said. "And you'll make this right. Every bit of it."
Bill met Charlie's eyes across the bed; both brothers nodded faintly — relief tempered by the kind of love that only survives real fear. Professor McGonagall gave a single, approving nod to Arthur and Molly, acknowledging their handling of the situation before turning her attention elsewhere.
The Weasleys' quiet sobs were still fading when the door to the hospital wing exploded open,
Petunia Dursley stood framed in the doorway, her cardigan buttoned to the throat, her knuckles white on her handbag. A harried Ministry escort hovered just behind; Petunia's eyes darting toward the professors and back again as though trying to determine if she might spontaneously combust from being here.
She didn't belong in Hogwarts — every inch of her screamed it — yet for the first time, the ancient stones seemed to make room for her fury. The hospital wing fell still as she strode inside, her heels striking sharp against the floor.
Her gaze scanned the ward — white sheets, flickering candles, floating potion phials — and then found Harry. Everything else ceased to exist.
"You," she hissed. One word, venom-laced.
She advanced on him, shaking, the kind of shaking that comes from anger too long denied. "They called us. Said you'd been pulled from some underground tomb, that you nearly died. Again."
Harry sat up quickly, guilt already rising in his chest. "Aunt Petunia, I—"
"Don't you dare start." Her voice cracked like a whip. "You think this is brave? Charging off into danger, risking your life for every fool thing that crosses your path? What is wrong with you?"
Harry blinked, stammering. "I was trying to save—"
"You were trying," she interrupted, her tone mocking, trembling. "You were trying. Do you think your intentions matter to the dead? To the parents who had to get a call saying their child almost didn't come home because he thought he was a hero?"
Harry's face flushed red. "It wasn't like that!"
"Oh no?" Petunia stepped closer. "Then tell me, Harry — what was it like? Was it fun? Charging down there with no plan, no thought, no sense? Do you think you're some great wizard? Some prodigy? Tell me — what spells can you even cast properly? What great magic have you done in this world you almost died for?"
He froze, mouth half open.
Her eyes narrowed, gleaming with furious clarity. "Nothing, have you? You can barely keep your marks up. You think being famous makes you powerful, but you're not powerful, Harry. You're a child who doesn't even understand the gift he's been given."
Her voice shook, but her words were knives. "Do you even know who your mother was? Lily Evans — top of her class every single year. The professors adored her. She brewed potions most adults couldn't manage, cast charms no one else could sustain, and still found time to help everyone around her. I used to listen to her talk about it all summer — her exams, her essays, the things she built with that wand of hers — and I hated her for it. I hated her brilliance. Because she was everything."
Her breath hitched, but she pressed on, voice rising, shaking. "And then she died. She died for you. My sister — the brightest witch of the century — and this is what she gets in return? A reckless boy who runs off to play the hero and calls it bravery? You don't even understand the difference between courage and stupidity!"
"I was trying to help Ginny—" Harry started again, but his voice broke halfway through.
Petunia's fury sharpened. "You think Lily would be proud of this? Of you?"
"Do you think she'd look down from wherever she is and say, 'Well done, Harry, you nearly got yourself killed again'? She would be ashamed!"
The words hit like curses. Harry recoiled as though struck.
"She gave up everything," Petunia continued, relentless now. "Her home, her husband, her future. Everything. She faced down a crazed murderer so that you could have a life — and what have you done with it? Detentions? Sneaking around at night? Breaking rules because you think it makes you special?"
Her hands were trembling uncontrollably now, and for a moment, her voice faltered — but only for a moment. "I used to tell myself you'd grow into it. That somewhere in there, that brilliance had to live on. But you don't even try, do you? You coast on your fame. You take the praise and none of the responsibility. You think you deserve what she died for."
Harry's eyes were wet now, his throat burning. "That's not true," he said, his voice hoarse. "I never thought—"
"You never think!" Petunia snapped, her grief twisting into something rawer, uglier. "You never stop to think what your life cost. You act like it was given freely. But your mother's love wasn't some magic trick to make you special — it was the last thing she had to give, and she spent it on you. The least you could do is live a life worth that price."
Her voice dropped suddenly, so low it was almost a whisper. "But you're not. You're wasting it."
She leaned in, tears streaking down her face, the fury now hollowed by exhaustion. "You're not the Boy Who Lived, Harry. You're just the boy who got lucky. And one day, that luck is going to run out — and when it does, no one will be able to save you. Not Dumbledore. Not your friends. And certainly not the memory of a mother you can't live up to."
She straightened abruptly, her breath shaking. "I didn't want this world. I still don't. But it's all that's left of her. And if you insist on staying in it, then you'd better learn what living actually means. Because your mother didn't die for a legend — she died for her son."
She turned on her heel and walked toward the door, her posture stiff, her face wet and streaked with fury and grief. The Ministry escort scrambled to follow.
No one moved.
Not the Weasleys. Not the professors. Not Harry.
He sat in silence, heart pounding in his chest, feeling smaller than he ever had in his life. Every word she'd spoken clung to him like ash, suffocating in its truth.
He wasn't a legend. He wasn't a hero.
He was just a boy — a living reminder of brilliance extinguished.
And for the first time, he realized that surviving wasn't glory.
It was an obligation.
By mid-morning, the Hospital Wing had become a junction between two realities.
Beds that only hours ago had held silent statues now stirred with life. The air smelled faintly of potion vapours and clean linen.
Sunlight through stained glass painted moving colors across the floor — a fragile kind of peace after months of terror.
Outside, Ministry escorts waited in the corridor — their formal robes sharp against the stone — while inside, the Heads of House moved from bed to bed, greeting families.
The first to arrive were Mr. and Mrs. Creevey, escorted by Professor McGonagall herself.
Mr. Creevey's milk-stained overcoat hung stiffly at his sides; his wife clutched her handbag as though it were armour.
"Mr. and Mrs. Creevey," McGonagall said softly. "Your son is awake, unharmed, and in very good spirits."
Colin sat upright, blinking owlishly in the light, his ever-present camera lying on the nightstand.
"Mum! Dad!" he croaked, voice cracking with excitement. "I'm all right! Properly all right!"
His mother rushed forward, tears spilling. "Oh, love, we thought—"
"You were turned to stone," his father blurted, looking from his son to the professor. "For months, they said."
McGonagall inclined her head. "Petrified, yes — frozen in time, but alive. The reversal was completed this morning. No harm remains."
He swallowed hard. "How did you… how does anyone even fix that?"
McGonagall's lips softened. "Magic, Mrs. Creevey. And a great deal of it."
"The Ministry sent specialists," she said simply. "Experts who handle ancient curses and containment. Your boy was never in pain."
Mrs. Creevey pressed her shaking hands to her mouth. "Thank God."
Professor Sprout received the next pair — Lord and Lady Finch-Fletchley, impeccably dressed in conservative tweed and pearls, their posture aristocratic but their eyes wide with unease.
"Professor," Lord Finch-Fletchley said stiffly, offering his hand. "We appreciate your… invitation."
Sprout smiled kindly. "You're most welcome. Your son is recovering beautifully."
Justin lay half-propped against his pillows, looking pale but alert. "Mum, Dad!"
Lady Finch-Fletchley hurried forward, grasping his hand as though afraid he'd vanish again. "My darling, what on earth happened?"
Sprout folded her hands. "Your son was one of several students caught by a magical creature's defensive enchantment. It's been neutralized. The specialists who resolved it have decades of experience in magical crises."
Lord Finch-Fletchley frowned. "Specialists? As in Special Forces?"
She nodded. "Something like that. Their department deals with old, unpredictable magic — work that isn't public for safety reasons. Rest assured, the situation is completely contained."
Lady Finch-Fletchley exhaled shakily. "You mean he's safe now? Truly safe?"
"Safer than anywhere else in Britain," Sprout said. "The school's protections have been renewed from the ground up."
Justin smiled weakly. "Told you magic school wasn't boring."
His father let out a dry, incredulous laugh. "You'll forgive me if I preferred boring, son."
The next visitors were Drs. Granger, escorted by Professor McGonagall.
Both still wore their dental uniforms beneath their coats — they had come straight from their practice, faces pale and drawn.
"Mr. and Mrs. Granger," McGonagall said, her tone measured but warm, "your daughter has been fully restored. The petrification left no lasting harm."
Mrs. Granger rushed forward and caught Hermione in a trembling embrace. "Oh, sweetheart— we didn't understand the letters— we thought—"
Hermione squeezed her mother's hand. "It's all right, Mum. I'm fine."
Dr. Granger glanced at the floating diagnostic charms, brow furrowed. "They said it was some sort of curse?"
"A defensive magic," McGonagall explained. "An ancient one — something we haven't seen in centuries. But the Ministry intervened swiftly, and the containment team neutralized it entirely."
He looked at her searchingly. "Can it happen again?"
"No," she said firmly. "The castle's protective systems have held strong, and over the summer will be strengthened and renewed, Hogwarts will truly be the safest environment for children.."
Mrs. Granger exhaled. "And she'll be all right?"
McGonagall smiled faintly. "Perfectly. Give her rest and perhaps a bit less homework for the week."
Hermione groaned softly. "You mean no homework at all."
The professor's eyes twinkled. "Don't push your luck, Miss Granger."
Finally came Mr. and Mrs. Clearwater, both tall, polished, and impeccably dressed — lawyers from the city, carrying themselves like they'd walked into a courtroom they didn't understand.
They were escorted by Professor Flitwick, who met them with a bow half his height and twice his charm.
"Mr. and Mrs. Clearwater, welcome back to Hogwarts," he said. "Your daughter is awake and recovering beautifully."
Penelope sat upright, smiling wanly but steady. "Mum! Dad!"
Her mother crossed to her instantly, tears welling in sharp, restrained eyes. "We were told there was an accident — a creature?"
Flitwick nodded gravely. "A remnant of ancient magic beneath the school, dormant for centuries. The Ministry dispatched containment experts to resolve it. Your daughter was frozen, not harmed — and now she's completely restored."
Mr. Clearwater's tone was clipped, professional. "Containment experts?"
"Yes. They're trained in handling ancient enchantments — the kind older than this country itself," Flitwick said. "Most of their work isn't discussed publicly. For good reason."
He smiled up at them reassuringly. "What matters is that the danger is past, and Penelope will be perfectly fine."
Mrs. Clearwater's jaw softened. "We'll hold you to that, Professor."
Flitwick bowed again. "I wouldn't expect less from a barrister, ma'am."
That earned the first laugh in the room — a small, genuine sound that eased something heavy in the air.
As the morning wore on, the ward filled with quiet conversations — relief, tears, and the uncertain laughter of people who had glimpsed something vast and terrifying and survived it.
The Ministry escorts took quiet notes. Professors murmured reassurances.
And for the first time in months, Hogwarts felt — not just safe — but alive.