HIDDEN REFLECTIONS

𐙚THIRTY-FOUR ౨ৎ

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

LEAH'S POINT OF VIEW

It's been a few weeks, and no one really knows what's going on. Whispers fill the halls like the wind before a storm—everyone can sense it, but no one speaks it aloud. Dark times are coming. Even the castle feels heavier, the air thick with tension. McGonagall's been appointed Headmistress, but something in me knows it won't last. Nothing will.

I sit as far from Pansy and Blaise as possible during lunch. They've tried to talk to me a few times, but I shrug them off, not wanting to engage in their conversations. The void between us feels too wide, as though a part of me has detached, floating somewhere I can't reach. I haven't seen Theodore, Enzo, Draco, or Mattheo since that night. I haven't heard from my brother.

Some nights, a no-caller ID rings me. I pick up, every time, hoping. I say hello into the receiver, but there's only silence. No voice, no breathing. Just an empty void, like talking to a ghost. I sit there for five minutes each time, listening to nothing, my own heartbeat echoing in my ears, before hanging up.

The world feels... heavy. Glum and dark, like the sky before a storm that never breaks. Even the days blur into one another, and lately, I've found myself staring at nothing, wondering what the point of any of this is. It feels like I'm sinking, like the world is moving on without me, and I'm stuck in place.

Across the Great Hall, Ron Weasley watches me. His eyes linger on me from across the empty table where he sits, alone. I think he's leaving today. Harry hasn't returned, not really—not even with McGonagall in charge. Hermione's been gone too. I haven't seen her in what feels like ages.

I get up from the bench, feeling the weight of stares as I walk over to where Ron sits. The long wooden table stretches out on either side of him, bare, except for him, hunched over his plate. I stop in front of him, unsure why I've even come.

"Your friends weren't that great, were they?" he says, his voice dripping with something close to bitterness. It's not kind, but there's an edge of curiosity there, too.

I narrow my eyes at him, feeling my stomach twist. "Is that why you're staring?" I ask, my voice colder than I meant.

He chuckles darkly. "I'm trying to figure out what Hermione sees in you."

My brow furrows. "What?"

Ron leans back in his seat, shaking his head. "Even in the middle of all this—" He gestures vaguely, as if referring to the chaos swirling around us. "—Hermione's trying to figure out some spell. She says it's connected to you."

I blink, confused. "Hermione's here? At Hogwarts?"

He nods, his expression softening, if only a little. "Spends an awful lot of time with Myrtle. Don't know what she's playing at, but... yeah."

I frown, trying to figure out why Hermione would be spending time with Moaning Myrtle of all people. The thought makes my head ache, like something's pressing against my skull. My face scrunches involuntarily as I try to make sense of it.

"Does that happen a lot?" Ron asks, his tone more curious now than accusatory.

I blink at him, unsure what he means. "What?"

"When you think of something—or someone—when you try to remember, does your head hurt? Do things blur? Do your eyes twitch?"

A chill runs down my spine. I stare at him, trying to piece together my thoughts. "Yeah," I answer slowly, feeling the fog roll in again. "It happens a lot."