CHAPTER SIX

It didn't take long for Headmistress McGonagall and Coach Hooch to uncover the culprit behind the jinxed Bludgers. The truth surfaced swiftly, and the female student responsible was immediately expelled from Hogwarts. She was sent to a witches and wizards juvenile centre, where she would remain until coming of age, at which point she would serve a more formal sentence for her reckless and dangerous actions.

Justice, however, did little to undo the harm that had already been done. Nimah's injury was not merely physical; it was a curse-laden wound, the full extent of which became horrifyingly clear as time went on. Though the Bludger hadn't directly struck Fred with its malevolent spell, Nimah hadn't been as fortunate. The curse meant for her had fulfilled its cruel intent, wreaking havoc on her body. Despite the best efforts of St. Mungo's top healers, they were unable to reverse the effects. The damage, they explained, was deeply rooted in a complex fusion of magical and physical trauma—one that resisted even the most advanced healing techniques.

Her admission to St. Mungo's for long-term physical therapy only deepened her struggles. Nimah had always been fiercely independent, thriving on her ability to move freely and command her own life. Now, confined to a bed or a series of sterile therapy rooms, she felt like a shadow of her former self. Days blurred together in a monotony of exercises, potions, and mediwitch evaluations. While her body showed slow signs of stabilization, her mind began to unravel under the strain.

The first few nights in the hospital had been the hardest. In the darkness of her room, reality had hit her like a freight train. She'd broken down, sobbing into her pillow until her throat was raw. When her parents and family visited, she refused to let them stay long, pushing them away with hollow reassurances that she was "fine." But they weren't fooled. Each time they left, the ache of loneliness deepened, yet Nimah couldn't bring herself to let them see her in such a vulnerable state.

By the end of that first week, she had outright denied most visitations. She couldn't bear to see the pity in their eyes. The looks that said they wanted to help but couldn't. The last thing she wanted was for anyone—family, friends, or even Fred—to see her as anything other than the strong, capable person she had always been.

Her refusal to connect, however, came at a cost. With each passing day, the isolation chipped away at her resolve. The walls of St. Mungo's began to feel suffocating, the air thick with the sterile scent of potions and despair. She was surrounded by people, yet she had never felt more alone.

Her thoughts became her worst enemy. She wrestled with the overwhelming fear that she would never recover—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. Her Quidditch dreams were gone, stripped from her in an instant. And while her therapists encouraged her to find new goals, she couldn't bring herself to imagine a life beyond the pitch. She was haunted by memories of flying, the freedom and joy it had once brought her was now a cruel reminder of what she had lost.

Each night, as the hospital wing grew quiet, the urge to scream clawed at her throat. She fought against it, burying her face in her pillow, but the pressure inside her built relentlessly. She felt trapped in a body and a life that no longer felt like her own.

By the second week, Nimah began to lose track of time. The days felt meaningless, filled with exercises that seemed futile and potions that offered little solace. She was socially deprived, having cut herself off from the people who loved her most. And the longer she remained in this state, the harder it became to imagine letting anyone back in.

She stared at the ceiling one night, her fingers gripping the sheets tightly as tears streamed down her face. She had always been strong, and resilient. But now, she wasn't sure how much longer she could hold on. The isolation, the pain, the loss of identity—it was all too much.

Nimah closed her eyes, whispering to herself in the stillness, "I can't let anyone see me like this."

At Hogwarts, the fallout from Nimah's injury was profound. In a show of solidarity, her Quidditch team made the unanimous decision to forfeit the remainder of their matches for the year. Surprisingly, the other houses quickly followed suit. No one felt it was right to continue the season after what had happened. The air around the castle became sombre, with the absence of Quidditch creating an unspoken acknowledgement of the gravity of the incident.

When Nimah learned of this collective decision, her emotions became a tangled mess. On one hand, she was deeply moved by the respect and loyalty shown by her peers. On the other, it deepened her guilt, making her feel as though she had robbed everyone of something they cherished. It took months for her to process it all.

As summer rolled in, Nimah finally allowed herself to accept visitors. At first, it was difficult—emotionally exhausting and overwhelming—but slowly, she began to open up. Her family, who had been tiptoeing around her emotional state, was relieved beyond measure. While her injury still left her physically vulnerable, the warmth and love from her loved ones began to mend the cracks in her spirit.

The Weasleys were among the first to come pouring in, eager to see her. They brought with them laughter and encouragement, though the air became noticeably tense when Fred arrived. Both he and Nimah were hesitant around each other, burdened by unspoken feelings of guilt. Fred couldn't shake the thought that he might have caused her pain, while Nimah harboured the same sentiment. Neither had managed to find the courage to address it, and their interactions were mostly fleeting, overshadowed by the presence of friends and teammates visiting in clusters.

Her former teammates were a bittersweet presence. Their unwavering support lifted her spirits, but seeing them also reminded her of what she had lost. The pangs of guilt surged as she looked at their faces, feeling as though she had let them down by not being there for them. However, they were quick to scold her for such thoughts, reminding her that none of this was her fault. Their camaraderie and loyalty only deepened her bittersweet feelings.

Despite the outward progress and improved morale from the steady stream of visitors, the weight of her reality lingered. At night, when the bustle of the day quieted, Nimah often found herself breaking down. She cried silently into her pillow, mourning the loss of her dreams and the life she once knew. It was during one of these nights that Fred, cloaked in the borrowed invisibility of Harry's famous cloak, found himself standing outside her door.

Fred had debated for weeks about coming to see her alone. He had convinced himself that his presence might only bring her more pain. But something about tonight had compelled him to come. Perhaps it was the way everyone else seemed to dance around the topic of her injury, or the way Nimah's forced smiles never quite reached her eyes. He had thought he was prepared to face her, but hearing the muffled sound of her sobs through the door rooted him in place.

For a moment, Fred froze, his heart tightening in his chest. He felt the familiar ache of guilt creep up, telling him this was all his fault. Deep down, though, he suspected Nimah was feeling the same way—and it made him ache even more. Neither of them had truly been at fault, yet they bore the weight of it as if they were.

Fred leaned against the doorframe, the words he wanted to say swirling in his mind but refusing to form. He hated seeing her like this, broken and lost when she had always been the most vibrant, unstoppable force in his life. He wished he could say something—anything—that would take her pain away.

But for now, Fred simply stood there, cloaked in invisibility, his heart breaking with each muffled sob that reached his ears. He clenched his fists, feeling the weight of his helplessness pressing down on him like a heavy stone. He wanted to burst through the door, to pull her into a hug and tell her that none of this was her fault—that she didn't deserve any of the pain she was going through. But he knew she might not be ready to hear it, and perhaps, neither was he ready to face the depth of her pain.

So, he stayed. Listening. Silent. Every cry tore at his resolve, but he let the sounds seep into his heart, fueling a quiet determination that had been growing within him since the day she fell. It wasn't just guilt that tethered him to her—it was something stronger, something that had been there long before the accident but had now taken root, immovable and steadfast.

Fred leaned his head against the door, his mind racing through memories of her laughter, her fiery comebacks, and the way she used to light up the Quidditch pitch. She wasn't just a rival; she was his equal, his partner in chaos, the one person who could keep him on his toes. To see her like this—lost, hurting, and so unlike herself—felt unbearable.

He didn't know how, but he silently vowed to help her find her way back. Whether it was through the smallest gestures or grand acts of mischief, Fred promised himself that he would do whatever it took to remind her of who she was and the strength she still carried within her.

For now, though, he remained just outside her door, invisible in more ways than one, letting his silent presence carry the weight of the promise he wasn't yet ready to speak aloud.