The Burrow was cloaked in velvety silence, save for the occasional creak of ancient wood and the hushed whispers of wind brushing against the windowpanes. The summer heat was heavy, pooling in corners of the room like a warm fog, but Ginny had insisted you stay the night, sensing your exhaustion.

You’re curled in bed, your breathing shallow, limbs tense with a kind of remembered fear. Sleep should offer relief, but tonight it pulls you under too fast—into sharp corners of memory and illusion. The night terror arrives like a storm surge: your pulse hammering, your chest clamped tight with invisible hands, the shadows in your mind blooming into warped shapes. You thrash once, instinctively, half-screaming into the pillow.

Ginny bolts awake.

Her wand is already in hand, the tip glowing faintly as she murmurs “Lumos.” She doesn’t speak at first. She knows your eyes won’t register her presence right away—that the monsters you’re fighting are behind your eyelids, and not in the room.

Instead, she climbs into your bed, not shy, not cautious. Her hand finds yours and grounds it, warm and solid.

“I’m here,” she says softly, repeating it until your breathing begins to return. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Your body is drenched in sweat, jaw clenched. You blink rapidly, eyes adjusting to the soft glow of Ginny’s wand-light. She doesn’t ask what you saw. She doesn’t need to.

Instead, she conjures a cooling charm that feels like wind threading through your sheets. She hums quietly, an old lullaby Molly used to sing, and strokes your hair back from your face until the remnants of terror dissolve, molecule by molecule.

You lie together in the hush, neither speaking. Her thumb traces idle circles along your wrist, grounding you in this moment—this fragile, lovely corner of reality.