He pushed the door open, and the warmth of the Burrow spilled out into the cold night. The kitchen was lit with a dim, golden glow. The smell of something burnt—dinner, abandoned hours ago—hung in the air. A kettle sat cold on the stove.

Arthur was at the table, a cup of tea untouched in front of him. His face was drawn, tired, lined with worry. He rose slowly, his eyes moving from Moody to you, then back again.

Arthur's brow furrowed. He took a step closer, squinting at you in the dim light.

Moody's jaw tightened. He glanced at you, then back at Arthur.

The name landed like a hex in the middle of the room. Arthur's face went pale. His teacup clattered against the saucer as he set it down, his hand unsteady.

Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, hurried. A voice called down from above.

Ron stopped halfway down the stairs, his wand drawn, his eyes landing on you. His expression shifted from confusion to something colder. Something harder.