THE LOST DOG ' s. black

[22] the weight of it all

   IT felt like the world snapped back into focus with a sudden, jarring shift, and I stumbled forward, my feet unsteady beneath me. A cold, sterile smell hit me first—clean, antiseptic, like the inside of a hospital. My legs wobbled slightly as I took a deep breath, my senses bombarded by the unfamiliar surroundings.

I was no longer in the Headmaster’s office. No longer in the comfortable walls of Hogwarts. We were somewhere entirely different.

I blinked, squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. The sounds of hurried footsteps echoed around the hallway—distant, but moving closer. The air felt thick with tension, and I could feel the anxiety in my chest rising, making my breaths shallow. It wasn’t just the shock of being transported here through the Portkey that unsettled me. It was the unmistakable weight of urgency that hung in the air, a sense that something critical was happening, and we were in the thick of it.

Before I could make sense of the room around me, I was pulled into motion by Harry, who was already moving toward a set of double doors at the end of the corridor. Ron and Hermione were right behind us, their faces pale and taut with the same nerves that had gripped me. As we approached, a tall, sharp-eyed Healer stepped out from behind the doors, his white coat gleaming in the light, the red cross on his chest a stark reminder of where we were.

"Professor McGonagall’s already been admitted," the Healer said, his voice clipped but not unkind. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries, just gestured quickly for us to follow. “We need to get you all checked in too. Flitwick’s already notified us.”

I nodded, but the words didn’t register. I was still trying to process how we had ended up in St. Mungo's—what was happening? Where was McGonagall?

The Healer led us into a large treatment room. It was bustling with activity: Healers moving quickly between patients, a few other wizards and witches sitting on chairs in the corner, looking anxious.

The room itself felt cold, clinical, unlike anything I had ever imagined about a magical hospital. But as soon as I caught sight of McGonagall, lying on a bed in the far corner, everything in my body froze.

She was unconscious, her face pale and bruised from where the Stunner had hit her. Her usually composed and strong demeanor was nowhere to be seen. It was a stark reminder of how quickly everything had changed.

One moment she had been standing tall in the courtyard, and the next, she was here, at St. Mungo’s, at the mercy of the very people who sought to control this world.

I took a step forward, my breath catching in my throat. "How is she?" I whispered, not sure who I was asking. Flitwick had told us she’d only been stunned, but it didn’t look like she was going to wake up anytime soon.

The Healer gave me a quick look before turning to check the monitors beside McGonagall’s bed. “She’s stable for now,” he said, his voice calm but urgent. “She was hit with a powerful Stunner, but there’s no lasting damage. We just need to keep an eye on her.”

I felt a rush of relief, but it was short-lived. There was still too much going on, too much uncertainty. The thought of McGonagall—our pillar of strength—lying here, vulnerable, made my stomach twist.

"She’ll be alright, right?" Hermione asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She stood close to me, her eyes glued to McGonagall, her brow furrowed with worry.

“For now,” the Healer replied, glancing back at her. “But we’ll need to make sure she rests. No unnecessary strain.”

“Good,” Ron muttered under his breath, a sigh escaping his lips. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly relieved, but his face was still pale with the aftermath of everything that had happened.