𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐋 𝐈 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 | f. w

6

The candlelight flickered softly, casting long shadows across the stone walls of the room as Erin lay awake, staring up at the ceiling. Every detail around her—the tapestries, the enchanted flames, the faint scent of herbs and parchment—felt rich and layered, as though she were lying within a memory itself.

It had been hours since she and Fred had returned from the Pensieve, but the images still swirled in her mind. The Great Hall. Dumbledore. The haunting weight of his words, as if he'd spoken directly to her across time. The situation we face is one of great peril... though your memories may fade, you will live on in the hearts of all who know what you have given. She shivered, hearing the echo of his voice in her mind, almost as if he were there in the room beside her.

She turned her head toward the small window, where a sliver of moonlight slipped through the heavy curtains, painting a thin stripe of silver across the floor. Her fingers traced the soft fabric of the blanket absently, as if trying to ground herself, but her mind remained restless. Sleep felt impossible; she was too close to something, something she couldn't yet name. It was as though she were standing in front of a door that had been locked her whole life, and now, finally, she could feel the faintest creak as it began to open.

Unable to lie still any longer, Erin pushed the blanket aside and rose quietly from the bed. The room was hushed, alive only with the gentle hum of magic that seemed to breathe through the walls. She crossed to the table where the Pensieve sat, its silver surface smooth and still, as though it, too, were sleeping. Her fingers hovered over it, tempted to plunge into the depths again, to pull out the memories that felt so close. But a hesitation held her back, a lingering fear that she was somehow unready for what she might see.

Instead, her eyes drifted to the shelves beside her, where the glass jars and books sat in neat, orderly rows. A small box caught her attention, its brass hinges gleaming faintly in the candlelight. She picked it up carefully, feeling the cool weight of it in her hands. It was a simple box, made of dark wood, worn smooth by time, with a small crest etched into the lid—a crest she somehow recognized, even though she couldn't place where she'd seen it before.

As she traced the shape with her fingertip, a faint twinge of recognition sparked within her, like a forgotten melody just beginning to resurface. She closed her eyes, willing herself to remember, to let whatever memory lingered beneath the surface come forth.

"Erin?"

She turned, startled, to see Fred standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable in the dim light. She hadn't heard him come in, but now, with his presence filling the room, she felt a sense of calm, like a steadying hand anchoring her to the present.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked softly, stepping inside and closing the door quietly behind him.

She shook her head, glancing back at the shelves. "No. There's just... too much. I keep thinking about what we saw, about the Great Hall and Dumbledore and the memory charms... it feels like pieces of me are waking up, but I can't... grasp them." Her voice trembled, frustration mingling with the aching sense of something missing, just out of reach.

Fred nodded, his eyes thoughtful. He moved to stand beside her, looking over the shelves and the magical objects scattered around them. "Sometimes memories are like that," he said quietly. "They come in fragments, like shadows on the edge of a dream. The harder you try to chase them, the more they slip away."

Erin's shoulders slumped, but she nodded, understanding. "I just... I want to remember. I feel like I'm so close, but every time I reach for it, it disappears."

Fred was silent for a moment, then his gaze drifted to the Pensieve, its silvery surface smooth and beckoning. "Maybe we don't need to reach for the past," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe... we need to let it come to us."