The common room had never felt so loud.
Even with the fire crackling, the wind howling through the high windows, and the buzz of students studying, nothing compared to the voices of Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger locked in their latest—and worst—argument yet.
"It's your cat, Hermione!" Ron shouted, his face red as a Howler. "You've seen the way it looks at Scabbers—like he's a midnight snack!"
Hermione's hair bristled around her shoulders as she clutched her books tighter. "Ron, Crookshanks is a cat. Cats hunt. You can't expect him to ignore every rat in Hogwarts—especially when you leave Scabbers lying around like a lump!"
"He's not a lump—he's a pet! My pet!" Ron snapped back.
Harry sat at the table nearby, quill paused above his parchment. A few months ago, he would have jumped up to intervene, to wave his hands and plead for peace. He'd have tried to play the peacemaker, to remind them they were friends.
But things had changed.
Salazar Slytherin had called friendship a distraction. "Attachments are weaknesses that bind you to mediocrity." Harry hadn't agreed with that. Not really. But now… he was starting to see the grain of truth in it.
He still cared about them—of course he did. They had faced death together. They had fought for each other. But as he watched Ron's face twist in childish frustration, something inside him cooled.
Hermione was working harder than any witch in their year, studying ancient runes and practicing complicated charms late into the night. She knew exactly what she wanted—to be a professor, or work in the Ministry, to make something of herself.
And Ron… Ron just wanted to win at Wizard Chess.
Harry found himself wondering, for the first time, Why did I choose Ron as my best friend?
Because he was easy to be around? Because he was the first person to be kind to him?
That was enough once, Harry thought, watching Hermione turn away with her jaw clenched. But it isn't anymore.
He sighed and returned to his notes, quill scratching over the yellowed page of Advanced Defensive Hexes. His hand moved automatically, copying out a spell he'd read about—Protego Maxima, an amplification of the Shield Charm. He could feel Hermione's hurt as she stalked past and up the stairs to the girls' dormitory, books clutched to her chest.
Ron slumped into the chair across from him, glaring at the fire.
"Crookshanks is going to eat him, you know," Ron mumbled. "Then she'll act like it's my fault."
Harry didn't answer. He finished the line he was writing, feeling the tension tighten between them.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and careful.
"Ron… maybe if you cared a bit more about looking after Scabbers, it wouldn't have come to this."
Ron's head snapped up. "You're taking her side?"
Harry met his eyes calmly. "I'm not taking sides. I'm telling you the truth. Hermione's working herself half to death trying to keep up with everything. You're not even trying to understand."
For a second, Ron just stared at him. And then he looked away, jaw tight.
"You've changed, you know," he muttered.
Harry nodded. "I know."
Because it was true. He had changed. He was stronger now, sharper, more focused. He didn't have time to babysit their endless quarrels.
If they wanted to fight, let them.
He still remembered every moment of the cupboard under the stairs, every lie, every year he'd nearly died—and he would not waste this new strength patching over petty squabbles.
But still, as Ron stomped away and the common room fell quiet again, something in his chest twisted.
They're still my friends.
He set his quill down and rubbed his eyes.
Let them cool off, he told himself. Let them figure it out.
And maybe, if they didn't, he'd decide whose side he was really on.
For now, he went back to his notes.
Because when the darkness came again—and he knew it would—knowledge would be the only thing that saved him.
The very next morning, the common room was already charged with tension by the time Harry climbed down from the boys' dormitory.
Ron was pacing near the fireplace, face red, hair sticking up at odd angles, his hands opening and closing into fists. Hermione sat on the opposite side, her arms folded tight over her chest, lips pressed thin as parchment.
As soon as Ron saw Harry, he burst out, voice high and ragged, "Scabbers is gone!"
Harry exhaled slowly. "Maybe he's just—"
"DON'T," Ron snapped, pointing a shaking finger at Hermione. "Don't you defend her again! Her bloody cat ate him! I know it!"
Hermione's cheeks flamed. "For the last time, Ron, you don't know that. Crookshanks is a cat. He chases things. That doesn't mean he—"
"Oh, save it," Ron barked. "You never cared about Scabbers anyway!"
They started shouting over each other—words blending into a swirl of accusation and hurt.
Harry stood there, staring between them, feeling a growing coldness in his chest.
I don't have time for this, he thought. I can't keep playing referee.
He waited until their voices grew hoarse, and then stepped forward.
"Enough," he said quietly, but firmly. "You're both driving me mad. If you can't talk to each other without screaming, then maybe you shouldn't talk at all."
Hermione glared at Ron with glassy eyes. Ron scowled back, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.
Harry rubbed his temples. "Look, why don't we… just go help Hagrid? We promised him we'd look over his lesson plans for the older years. You can be angry later."
Neither of them answered, but when Harry turned toward the portrait hole, they followed.
Hagrid's hut was warm and cluttered when they stepped inside, the smell of earth and stew lingering in the air. Fang bounded up, tail wagging, and Hagrid looked up from a stack of parchment, his big face lighting up.
"Ah, there yeh are! Thought yeh'd forgot all about me."
Harry shot him an apologetic look. "Sorry. Things have been… tense."
Hagrid nodded slowly. "Aye. I heard. Half o' Gryffindor's talkin' about the row."
Hermione blushed and crossed her arms again. Ron only glared at the floor.
Harry cleared his throat. "Anyway—what's the plan for the next lesson?"
Hagrid's expression brightened. "Well, I thought the seventh-years might be interested in the merpeople down in the lake. Show 'em how ter communicate, how ter avoid angerin' 'em."
He gestured to a pile of scrolls. "I've been writin' out some guides, but I'm no good at the proper wordin'. Thought maybe you lot could look 'em over."
Ron brightened a little, glad for a distraction. "Sure, Hagrid."
Hermione stepped forward, eager to help. "Oh, Hagrid, this is fascinating! I've read about the merpeople colonies here, but I didn't know they ever allowed observers."
Hagrid chuckled. "Only if yeh ask polite, Hermione. They don't like strangers."
As they sorted through the scrolls, Ron wandered near the fireplace. Then he froze.
"Wait—"
Harry looked up. "What is it?"
Ron bent down. Slowly, he reached behind an old crate. A shape shifted in his hands—something small and grey.
He stood, holding a very thin, very startled rat.
"Scabbers!" Ron breathed.
The rat twitched, blinking blearily.
Hermione let out a long sigh. "Oh, thank goodness."
Ron didn't look at her. He tucked Scabbers carefully into his pocket, lips pressed tight. "He must've slipped out and come here. Hiding from your monster of a cat."
Hermione's face flushed again. "I told you, Crookshanks didn't—"
"Forget it," Ron snapped. "Doesn't matter."
"You could at least apologize," Hermione said sharply, voice rising again. "You accused me of—of—"
Ron lifted his chin, stubborn. "Not saying sorry."
Hermione's mouth fell open. "Fine."
She turned on her heel and stormed out of the hut, shoulders stiff.
Harry watched her go, then looked at Ron.
"You're impossible, you know that?"
Ron didn't answer.
Harry let out a breath and followed Hermione outside.
Dusk had settled over the grounds, shadows stretching long across the grass as Harry caught up to Hermione near the path back to the castle.
"Hermione—"
"Don't," she said, her voice tight. "I don't want to talk about him anymore."
Harry hesitated. He didn't know what to say, so he just walked beside her in silence.
Then—
A scream ripped through the air.
Harry spun around, his heart leaping to his throat.
Down the slope by the Whomping Willow, Ron was fighting something—something massive and black.
A dog.
Its jaws were clamped around Ron's sleeve, dragging him across the grass like he weighed nothing.
"RON!" Hermione shrieked.
Harry didn't think. He broke into a sprint, wand out, Hermione right behind him.
Ron struggled and kicked, but the dog was relentless, eyes glinting in the twilight.
It reached the roots of the Whomping Willow—then, impossibly, it vanished, dragging Ron with it.
The tree's branches shuddered once—and then everything went still.
Hermione clapped her hands over her mouth.
"Oh, no. No, no—What do we do?"
Harry raised his wand, jaw set.
"We follow him."
As the last echo of Ron's scream faded, Harry and Hermione bolted down the slope, grass whipping their ankles. The evening had turned to deep twilight, and the Whomping Willow loomed ahead, its thick trunk hunched like a predator.
They skidded to a stop at the edge of the tree's sprawling roots. Harry scanned the bark, searching for any sign of an opening.
"There!" Hermione pointed—a gap between the roots, just wide enough for a person to be dragged through.
But before they could step closer, the Willow shuddered.
Its branches lifted, creaking ominously.
Then—
WHIP!
A limb thicker than Harry's leg lashed out. He leapt sideways, feeling the air split against his cheek as it missed him by inches.
"Hermione, get back!" he shouted, ducking low.
Another branch came from above.
Hermione tried to dodge, but she wasn't fast enough. The blow caught her across the ribs with a dull, sickening thump, and she cried out as it sent her sprawling across the grass.
"Hermione!"
Harry's heart snapped tight.
He didn't think. Didn't weigh options.
He commanded.
His hand shot forward, palm open, and the world around him seemed to fall silent.
STOP.
The Force surged through his veins—pure, cold, unstoppable.
The Whomping Willow froze. Every branch, every leaf, every creaking knot—held still as if time itself had paused.
Hermione lay on her side, breathing hard, eyes wide in disbelief.
Slowly, she pushed herself up and looked at Harry as though seeing him for the first time.
"Harry… you—" She swallowed, her voice trembling. "You did that without your wand. You—you know wandless magic?"
Harry turned away from her stunned gaze. His heart was still hammering, but his voice was steady.
"Come on," he said, ignoring her question. "Ron needs us."
He climbed carefully over one of the tree's frozen roots, and Hermione scrambled after him, clutching her side.
The gap beneath the trunk widened as they approached—an opening carved into the earth like the mouth of a hidden lair.
They ducked inside.
At first, Harry thought it was a cave, damp and narrow, but as they went deeper, the walls became smoother—reinforced with beams and packed earth. A tunnel.
The darkness pressed around them, but Harry's eyes had grown sharp over months of training. He moved quickly, guiding Hermione forward, his steps silent on the cold dirt floor.
They followed the passage for what felt like forever, the only sound their ragged breathing. Then, at last, a ladder appeared at the tunnel's end, leading up into shadow.
Harry glanced at Hermione. "Stay behind me."
He climbed first, feeling the rungs creak under his weight. When he reached the top, he pushed up a hatch and emerged into a dim room that smelled of dust and old wood.
He stood, surveying the space. The walls were cracked timber. Cobwebs drifted across broken furniture. Moonlight pooled on the floor in long silver stripes.
Hermione climbed out behind him, brushing hair from her eyes, and moved to a broken window. She peered out, then turned to Harry, her face pale.
"Harry… this is the Shrieking Shack."
He frowned. "The what?"
"The Shrieking Shack," Hermione whispered, voice hushed with awe and fear. "It's in Hogsmeade. People say it's the most haunted building in Britain."
Harry looked around the empty room—then at the dark doorway where evidence of someone dragged through floor.
Haunted or not, he was going through.
He clenched his jaw. "Then let's find him."
And without another word, they stepped into the shadows together.