The Great Hall barely looked like itself anymore. The long tables had been shoved aside to make room for the wounded, the dying, the grieving. Dust hung in the air, broken stone littered the floor, and the once-beautiful banners were torn and stained with soot and blood.

You stumbled inside, heart hammering, searching the crowd with desperate eyes.

And then you saw him.

Ron stood across the room, his robes torn, his face smudged with dirt and blood. His eyes scanned the hall too, frantic, lost—until they landed on you.

He froze.

You barely registered moving. One moment you were standing still, the next you were running, pushing through clusters of people, ignoring the cries, the chaos.

Ron caught you as you crashed into him, his arms wrapping around you so tightly it hurt, but you didn’t care. You buried your face in his shoulder as his hands trembled against your back.

Neither of you spoke. There were no words for the kind of relief, the kind of devastation that poured out of you both. Silent sobs wracked your body as he clung to you, his face pressed into your hair, his own tears soaking into your robes.

—"I thought—" he tried to say, but his voice cracked and he just held you closer instead.