Before dawn we arrived. A face saw us as we landed.
Grey light lay over tiled roofs and wet brick. The air held the smell of damp soil, leaves and cold metal. My robes were tacky at the hem where fog had settled. We touched down on the narrow side street without a scrape. We risked Apparating here because the warding and our concealments were in place; otherwise we would have used a different route.
We were not meant to be seen. Not here. Not at this hour.
The streetlamps gave a steady hum and threw small circles of yellow across the paving and the shallow puddles from the night's rain. The village kept still. A gutter dripped at a regular pace. Somewhere inside, a loose hinge answered with a short creak and then fell quiet again. A van far off turned a corner and moved on, tyres hissing across the wet road.
The war had not stopped. Voldemort was weak enough to hide and strong enough to harm. The Order kept to short routes and shut mouths. The Memory Charm had held. Outside the Order, my name produced no image in people's heads. People could lift a photo album's cover and find an empty space where my picture should be. They would frown and think of someone else. They would not land on me. That was the point. The Charm does not stop someone looking at me. It removes the link between an impression and a later recollection. People can look and then form a different memory or no memory at all.
We still had to arrive unseen. No wands out. No conversation until the wards took hold. Two cloaked figures on a Muggle lane before first light. We were here to start again. Remus said the protections were sound. People had no reason to look for me and every reason to ignore two strangers who kept to themselves. I would learn the roads and the faces, test the wards and note where the ring tightened, check gateposts and sightlines, and time shop deliveries and the bank closing. I practised a neutral smile and a plain answer until it felt mechanical.
Movement crossed my eye. A girl crouched in the front garden opposite, about fifteen, her hair in a rough ponytail held by a plain band. Mud smeared both knees of her jogging bottoms. She pressed a row of bulbs into a square of turned soil and patted the surface flat with a small hand spade. A terrier stood near the gate and watched the soil with his head tipped. He gave a sudden, high bark.
The sound broke the quiet and echoed off the red brick. The girl flinched and turned. The porch light caught her face. Her eyes met mine and widened. The spade slipped from her hand and hit the flagstone with a dull tap. She pushed back hard with both palms, slid on the wet stone, caught herself on one heel and stood in a small rush that knocked the gate. For a second she braced to run, then stayed. No scream came. Her chest lifted and dropped. She grabbed the dog's collar, pulled him through the door and slammed it. The rattling glass settled. The porch light stayed on.
I kept my wand arm loose. Remus did the same. He shook his head once and mouthed, "Later."
I shut my eyes and breathed out through my nose until the sharpness left my throat. I pictured the kitchen she had run into. The dog would skitter on the tiles, claws tapping. Someone would stand up hard from a chair and ask what was wrong. She would try to explain and then falter because there had been nothing spoken and nothing brandished. A parent would tell her to lock the door and finish washing her hands. Someone would lift the teacup back onto its saucer. A minute later the radio would come up from a low hiss to the morning voice. She would still remember two cloaked figures on the pavement.
One frightened girl should not matter. It could matter if the wrong ear caught the story. New memories could form around the blank the Charm left. Names did not return with those memories.
Beside me, Remus let out a slow breath, the kind he used to steady himself before making a decision.
"We should have Apparated further up," he said quietly.
"Probably," I answered. I rubbed the back of my neck and tightened my mouth. "It got a certain style."
His eyes made a line between patience and rebuke and then moved on. He did not speak. That said enough.
We set off at an easy pace. Our footsteps scuffed the grit. A baby cried once on the next street and then settled. A bedroom curtain moved and then held still. The smell of woodsmoke drifted from a yard where someone had banked a stove for the night. A cat slid along a low wall and lifted its head as we passed.
The ordinary details eased the tightness in my chest by degrees. Water beads sat on the railings and cooled my fingers when I touched them at the top of the rise without thinking. The fabric at my cuffs stayed cold.
The lane climbed gently. We reached a narrow iron gate with flaking paint at the hinge. Beyond it, a short path led to a square house with two storeys and a small porch. The stone held a grey tone in this light. Ivy had taken two corners in even lines. The roof tiles were dull from rain. The front garden ran in a strip along the path; someone had cut the dead stalks close and tied soft green string round taller stems that were still firm. A clay pot stood by the step with three new seedlings. The glass in the front windows looked clean. The sill paint showed no chips.
A small plaque on the doorpost read LUPIN, stamped into darkened copper with neat letters and brass screws at each corner. We had avoided names for years; putting one on this door was Remus's choice, deliberate and uncomfortable in equal measure. We kept surnames neutral because the Memory Charm targets associative name-links; a house name alone draws little attention unless someone knows to look further.
The wards touched my skin before my hand reached the latch: a faint prickle along my forearms and the back of my neck, then a small warmth as it settled. The spellwork hid my name and masked my magical trace from anyone who probed the area. Remus had set it to recognise him at once. He had added me three days earlier, in a small room with our wands and a bowl of water, and only after Dumbledore authorised the change. The anchor reads a wand signature and links it to the house; the Headmaster's office applied the ward so the house would accept the link without undoing the wider Memory Charm. I felt the prickle and then a small warmth across my palm as he finished.
He touched the copper plaque with two fingers, then the frame, then the gatepost. The air near the hinge changed. A small bell tone from the wards sounded once and stopped. The protective ring re-engaged and registered as active. He nodded to himself and checked the lane again.
"It did not trigger when she looked," he said.
"She was close," I said. "Right there. I saw her eyes go to my face."
He pressed his mouth into a line and kept his eyes on the houses opposite. "The Muggle layer held. No push against the inner ring. That meant her view stayed on the Muggle impression; she did not make the associative leap that would have strained the house anchor. We will adjust the draw at dusk."
"All right."
We stood for a short while without talking and listened. A milk float turned into the far end of the road and made a soft clatter as the crates moved. A dog two doors down gave a low sound in its throat and then quieted. A blackbird in the hedge shook water from its feathers and hopped through to the post.
I looked at the house again. It did not look temporary. It had a chair under a window, a small table ready for a lamp, and a shoe rack beside the door. It looked ready for coats on hooks and a kettle on the hob. We had stayed in cottages with bare floors, heavy bolts and no curtains. We had stayed in a cellar under a pub where the smell of spilled beer sat in your hair. We had stayed in a friend's box room with a bed that groaned and a door that stuck low at the latch. This was different. Remus had kept his face even on the way here, but I could see the set of his shoulders now. He stood square, hands in his pockets, and took the garden in with the kind of care he used for lesson plans and long walks. It had cost him to make this. It had also given him something he could name without speaking.
"Is it always this quiet?" I asked.
"In the morning," he said. "Post at eight. Children at half past for the school round the corner. Mrs Patel lets her boy clatter his scooter to the end of the lane and back. He has a red helmet with a sticker."
"You know their names."
"I know enough to fit in."
"What did she plant?" I nodded at the square of soil where the girl had been.
"Daffodils," he said. "Late for bulbs. She will get some green shoots and a few flowers if the soil drains well."
He said it like he was noting the weather. He had always paid attention to small things that helped a person blend. I had seen him learn a corner shop's hours the first day and know the bin day the second. It made him harder to notice because it made him easier to describe as ordinary.
We went through the gate. The latch clicked and held. The paving stones sat firm under my shoes; no wobble at the join. A slow tick from a hallway clock met us at the door. The air that came through the letterbox had the faint smell of tea and toast. Someone had boiled water and washed mugs yesterday; the clean scent sat under the wood polish.
I looked back along the lane one more time. The porch where the girl had stood was closed. The spade lay beside the step with a smear of soil on the blade. The terrier pressed his nose to the glass and fogged a small circle. No other light showed. The sky at the far end had shifted from grey to the first tone of blue.
The knot in my stomach eased a little when I said the list in my head. The list had weight and order. It kept my hands from doing the wrong thing out of habit. The girl's eyes still sat in my mind. It would pass if we kept to the plan.
Remus rested his palm against the door and waited for my nod. I checked the street, listened for tyres, voices, anything that did not belong, and shifted my grip on the wand I kept low by my thigh.
"Ready?" he asked.
"As I am," I said.
He kept his hand steady and said, "Alohomora."
The lock clicked. The top hinge scraped once, metal on metal. The door moved a few inches and caught on swollen wood. The wards parted for him and then for me with a gentle heat against my fingers. He stepped inside and held the door.
Cool air met my face. The smell inside held paper dust and old timber, with a trace of damp under it. There was no rot. There was a faint soap note, as if someone had scrubbed the sink last week and let the windows stand open. My shoulders eased one notch. My breathing slowed without effort.
Morning light came through the front windows and reached across the hall floorboards. The light lay in straight bands. Shadows sat tight against the skirting and under the furniture lines. The ceiling was high, pale plaster with hairline cracks filled and sanded. The doorways were wide. No doors were shut.
On the right, the sitting room waited. Two armchairs faced a low table. The fabric did not match. Both cushions had sunk where people had used them. A wool rug covered most of the boards; the colours had dulled where feet had passed most often. A tall clock stood in the corner. The hands were near twelve; the pendulum did not move at first. A fine coat of dust lay on the brass and left a clean line when I drew a finger across the base. The cloth on the back of the nearest chair was thin under my hand where other hands had rested for years. The air carried the dry scent of paper and a faint sweet note from sun on old wood.
People had lived here. I could see it in the cup rings on the table, a quilt with rubbed stitches folded over the end of the sofa, and a bookcase of paperbacks with creased spines. There were no photographs on the mantel. No frames on the walls.
A narrow passage led past the sitting room to a small study. The desk faced a window looking onto the stone yard. Rain had started as fine drops and made small rings in shallow water on the flags. The garden beyond had grown out in places, although someone had cut back stems and tied others to canes. Clematis and honeysuckle covered the wall in two thick swathes. Foxglove, cornflower and poppy were set in irregular groups. Drops hit the petals and shook them. A blackbird moved along the fence and shook water from its wings.
Back inside, the kitchen was narrow and bright. Pale cupboards ran along one wall. Hinges were tight; none squeaked when I tried a door. Copper pans hung from a rail that sat one degree out of true. A window over the sink looked down the hill we had climbed. The glass was clean, the beading intact. An alcove where a larder had been held a short table, a small sofa and cushions in different colours with the nap flattened on the corners. A worn blanket lay half folded over the arm. The kettle sat on the hob with the spout turned left. The hob rings were scrubbed. A tin of loose tea and a jar of sugar stood by the back corner. Two plain mugs sat upside down on a cloth.
I pictured myself at that table with a hot mug in my hands, steam rising, rain against the glass, and no knock at the door. No alarms. Quiet and the tick of a clock.
We went up. Two bedrooms, both with bare boards that had been waxed at some point in the last year. Plain curtains. Clean sheets folded at the end of each bed. The air was still. I kept my voice low without thinking. The bathroom had cracked white tiles, an enamel bath with worn edges, a basin with a stiff cold tap and a mirror with small marks where the silver had thinned. A small window opened on a latch to rooftops and the lane. I looked along the street for the girl from the garden. The pavement was empty. The porch light across the way was off now. No blinds moved.
The floorboards gave under my feet on the way back to the landing. The sound was dry and even. It did not carry through the whole house. The handrail was smooth and firm. No wobble at the newel post. These were the things I had taught myself to notice because they told me how loud my life might be in a place that was not meant to see me.
"What do you think, Harry?" Remus's voice came from the hall below.
The sound of my name still struck me after months of refusing it. The habit of short answers rose as it always did, ready to end a conversation without lying. I stayed on the landing and let it pass.
"It'll do," I said at first and felt how flat that sounded.
I stood a second more and gave the truth I could carry. "It is solid."
The hall clock gave a short sound as the case settled; the pendulum answered with one small swing and then held steady. Rain ticked on the porch slate.
I went downstairs. Remus had taken off his cloak and hooked it by the door so it could drip into the tray. He watched me cross the kitchen. I filled the kettle and set it back. It clicked and began to work. While it heated, I checked the back door bolts, top and bottom. Both slid cleanly. The key turned without sticking. The small square of glass beside it had been sealed with fresh putty. I opened the door one inch and held my breath. No voices. No scuff of shoes. Only the rain and the metal ping from a neighbour's flue as it cooled. I shut the door and slid the bolts again.
The kettle clicked off. I warmed the mugs, tipped the water, measured tea and poured. The steam held a clean tannin scent. I added milk, one finger's width. The first mouthful was hot and strong and cleared the sour taste of London from my mouth. It settled my stomach.
Remus took his mug and leaned against the counter. "It will be quiet most days," he said. "We will walk the ward lines after this."
"Good." I looked at the back door and then at the sink window and its angle to the lane. "I want to learn all of it. Gates, fence posts, the sightlines. I want to know where the ring tightens and where it relaxes."
"You will," he said. His voice was level. He had already measured half the village in his head and written the rest on a list in the inner pocket of his cloak.
I carried my mug into the snug and set it on a coaster. The coaster had a water mark from a pot. The table had been sanded without varnish and would need oil if we meant to keep it. I opened the back door again by a fraction and listened one more time. Only the rain moved. I closed it and slid the bolts.
"It's not just adequate," I said. I didn't push further. "It's good."
He nodded once. It was the kind of nod he used when he heard a true thing and would not make a fuss.
We drank the rest of the tea. The heat reached my chest and hands and then went dull. When the mugs were empty, we rinsed them and set them to dry on a cloth.
"Pick a room," Remus said. "We will bring your things in and then mark the boundary. After that, you and I will walk the block. I want the house numbers in your head by nightfall."
I went up and chose the room that faced the lane. It had a view of the gate and the front path. The skirting was clean. The window catch held firm. I set my rucksack on the floor near the bed and placed my wand on the table within easy reach. I opened the window one inch to draw off the stale warm air from the climb and then shut it when the rain began to drift inward. The glass rattled once and settled.
From here I could see the garden across the road where the spade still lay by the path. No one moved. No lights came on. I would check again after we marked the wards. I stood with my hand on the sill. The paint felt smooth and cool under my palm. My heartbeat sat steady and low. I did not think the house made me safe. I believed I could get ready here.
I picked up my wand and turned towards the stairs. Remus came up with a cardboard box from the trunk. He set it on the landing and straightened.
"We will make it work," I said. My voice did not waver.
He met my eyes. "Then we begin," he said.
We put what little I owned in the drawers, checked that each drawer ran on its runners without catching, and closed them again. We set my books on the shelf in a line and left space for school texts. Remus showed me the small key for the back gate. I put it with my door key. He checked the time and rolled his sleeves.
We locked the front door, set the latch and went out under the rain.
Water made a fine noise on the leaves of the hedge beside the path. The iron gate was slick and cold under my fingers. I closed it behind us and held it until the catch engaged, then let go. The ward at the threshold gave a faint buzz over the skin on my forearm and eased. We took ten steps and stopped at the first post.
Remus pointed with two fingers rather than his wand. "The primary ring sits here," he said. "It is tied to the lintels and the hearth. Speak and touch at each post if you feel a change."
I lifted my wand and rested my other hand on the wet wood. The sensation ran over my knuckles and up my wrist, light and quick, then steadied. It was the same quality I had felt at the door, which meant the line was unbroken. I moved on and did it again. The prickle rose at the second post and held longer. I waited it out and watched the rain drip from the cap. It eased after three heartbeats.
"Good," Remus said.
We worked the perimeter. At the back corner by the elder tree, the ward pressed slightly harder against my palm. I held still and counted to five. The pressure reduced and evened. There was no tear. The elder's roots ran under the fence; the moisture in the soil had collected there. That was all. I made a note in my head. Elder corner, hold hands longer. On we went. The ring ran clean along the rear wall, drew close at the side gate and then relaxed when I spoke the house name under my breath. It stayed steady at the front right boundary post and returned to the gate where we had started.
"We will stagger the anchors tonight," Remus said. "Half now, half after midnight."
I nodded. "I want to test the lane view at first light tomorrow."
"We will."
The rain had thickened. I wiped the water from my eyebrows with the back of my wrist. Remus glanced towards the garden opposite. The door there stayed shut. No movement behind the glass. No second look.
We stood for a short time without talking, listening to the water and the low noise from a lorry turning on the road beyond the hill. I could feel the line of the ward under my skin, a faint hum that matched the ring of my wand core. It settled lower with each breath.
I looked at the gate to our path and then at the windows we would use. I drew the sightline from each sill to the street and from the back bedroom to the rear fence. The pattern formed cleanly, step by step, until there were no gaps I could see from here.
"Right," I said. "I have it."
Remus checked the lane one last time and then nodded towards the door. "We will bring in the trunk and the tools. After that, food, and then you sleep. We keep the same names tomorrow. We keep the same routes."
"Understood."
We turned back to the house. The ward registered as we crossed the threshold. It did not resist; it held firm. I closed the gate, heard the latch seat, and felt the ring tighten to its resting state. The house lights were off. The hall was dim and dry. The air inside smelled of tea, soap and wood polish.
I looked at the copper nameplate on the post, then at my key in my hand. The metal was cold and solid. Beyond the lane, the village kept to its morning. The war kept to its crawl. The house waited.
"I will learn every inch," I said.
"Good," Remus answered.
We went inside and locked the door. The bolt slid home with a clean scrape. The clock in the hall kept time, one sound after another, even and exact, without a miss.
We kept our heads down for three weeks in Ottery St Catchpole before I saw her by the river. In that time I learned the rhythm of the village: where the curtains opened first, which dog barked at ten, and which shopkeeper paused to count coins before turning away. It made the place predictable in a way I could use.
Most days followed the same pattern. We rose early. Remus checked the lines of the wards before breakfast. He walked the boundary with his wand held low. He touched the gateposts, the lintel and the stones by the step. A pale light showed around each point when he circled the tip and spoke the words. The light sank into the surface and went out. When I stood close, the magic pressed faintly against the skin of my forearms and neck. It was the same every time, which meant the protection held. Habit and caution kept us steady.
The Order sent short notes when they could. A date, a name, one request, then nothing for a while. We did not speak about what had come before. Outside the Order, no one remembered me. Shopkeepers passed change into my hand and looked past my face without a second glance. The Memory Charm removed the associative cue for my presence. People learned to ignore the empty spot. There was nothing to explain to anyone. Inside the house, Remus still used my name. Hearing it out loud made my stomach tighten for a second, then the feeling eased.
The village moved through its routine. Rubbish lorries came on Tuesday mornings. People wheeled bins to the kerb on Monday nights and dragged them back again before work. The post arrived at eight. A church bell sounded on Sundays. Children crossed the green at half past eight with bags that bounced against their legs. A terrier in the next street barked after bicycles and went quiet when the owner called. I learned the routes that did not put me under long stares. I kept to the edges where hedges gave me cover and footpaths ran behind the rows of houses.
I walked to clear my head when the house felt too still. I did not aim for a place. I let the roads decide. The lanes bent round low stone walls and fresh tarmac patches that still looked darker than the rest. The grass at the verges brushed damp against my trousers. Grit worked into my shoes and scratched my heels until I stopped to shake it out. The movement helped. It steadied my thoughts. I breathed shallow when the air smelled of manure, deeper when it smelled of rain. When the wind moved in off the fields, it carried a cold taste that sat at the back of my tongue.
Evenings were best. Lights came on one by one in the windows, and then the roofs were dark again behind them. Air cooled and lost the dry smell it had held at noon. The main road carried fewer cars. The sound of tyres dropped to a soft rush. Doors shut and stayed shut. Remus still scanned the horizon before we turned for home. A few Death Eaters had held on to parts of themselves that the Memory Charm could not reach. A few had prepared counterwards or bound themselves to magic that made them resistant to the Order's work. They kept names and faces that others had lost. That was why we still moved.
On a Friday we went further than we usually did. We left the road and took a narrow footpath that dipped into a shallow valley. Nettles brushed my calves through the cloth. The ground under the chalk gave a little, and my shoes slid once. I put a hand to the bank and pushed back upright. A rook called from a bare branch and fell silent. A tractor changed gears on the far side of the hill, then the sound faded.
A river ran along the bottom of the dip. It was not wide. Stones lay close under clear water, and the current made a steady sound that you could pick apart into small parts if you listened. Where the water ran over a ridge, the sound grew sharper, then softer. Where it pooled, the sound dropped. Midges gathered in a cloud at the bend near the willow and shifted in a small sway that looked like one thing until you watched a single insect break from it. The air felt cooler here. Damp came off the surface and sat on my cheeks.
I stopped because someone was already there. A girl sat on the bank with her legs stretched out. Her feet were in the water to the ankles. The hems of her rolled trousers were wet and dark. She wore a grey jumper with the cuffs worn thin at the edges. Her hair was a deep red. It hung loose down her back and lay across one shoulder. A light breeze lifted the finer strands near her face and then let them fall. Her trainers sat beside her on the grass with the laces tucked into the shoes. She watched the water and did not fidget.
I did not move at first. Remus halted beside me. Cold went over the back of my neck and eased straight away. The smell here was clean and plain: wet stones, crushed grass, and river weed. A faint smoke trace reached us from a chimney somewhere up the slope. The skin on my forearms prickled once and settled. The wards on us were quiet; there was no pull that meant a watcher.
She looked up and took us in. Her eyes were dark brown. She tracked from my face to Remus and back to me, then gave one short nod that recognised another person on the same path, nothing more.
"Hi," she said. "Nice night for a walk."
Her voice was low and even. I swallowed and found mine.
"Yeah. It is."
No alarm showed on her face. She did not search for a name. She saw a boy at the edge of a path at dusk with an older man behind him. That was it. The Memory Charm had done its work. The safety in that fact did not lift me. It left a hollow spot below my ribs that I pushed down.
She had no wand in her hand. There was no holster at her belt. Her clothes were ordinary. Her shoes had scuff marks at the toes. I guessed she was a Muggle. It was also true that experienced witches and wizards did not show what they did not want seen.
"You're not cold?" I asked, nodding at her feet.
"No." She lifted her heels clear of the river and let them sink again to the same place. Small ripples moved away in thin rings and broke against the stones. "I come here when I want my head to be quiet."
She looked at me again. She held the look without challenge and without softening it. Nothing moved on her face except her mouth when she spoke.
"Do you want to try?" she asked and shifted her legs a little to leave room beside her.
There was space on the grass. I pictured the water on my skin, the pressure on my ankles, and the pull in my calves when the current pushed past my feet. I could feel the air on my face and hear the fixed sound of the river under the small sounds around it. For a few seconds I wanted to sit, take off my shoes and stop. No alerts. No quick decisions. No reports later.
Remus put more weight on his right foot, and the path grit gave a small scrape under his sole.
"We'd better go, Harry," he said. His tone was even and firm.
I stepped back. The heel of my shoe pressed into wet grass and made a dark mark. The girl's eyes went to Remus and returned to me. I felt the muscles in my throat draw tight. I was aware of my pulse at my neck. It did not run fast. It was pronounced because I was holding too still.
Her mouth opened a little and then closed. Her smile thinned and held, not forced, not friendly in a showy way. It was the smile you give when you accept something you do not like.
"Maybe next time," she said. Her voice stayed low. The sound crossed the water cleanly and lost its edges on the other side.
We turned on the path. The first three steps were careful because the chalk slid under the surface mud. After that the ground held. I kept my eyes on the nettles and the ruts so I would not turn an ankle. My chest felt tight for a few breaths and then evened. The tightness did not leave completely. I looked back once. She had not moved. Her feet were still in the shallows. The water touched her skin and ran on. Her trainers were still in the same place on the grass.
We climbed out of the dip. The air warmed by a small amount when we left the bank. A car on the far road changed gears and passed. A porch light clicked on up the lane near the bend, then went off again. A fox barked from the hedge and cut off mid-sound. When we reached the stile, Remus paused and looked back along the hedge gap to the river. He checked the skyline, the bridge rail, and the willow line with the quick method he had taught me. His shoulders eased a fraction, which meant he had seen nothing new.
Behind us, the river kept its steady sound. It did not change what had happened. I knew the reason. I had stepped back when Remus spoke, but it was not only his voice that had moved my feet. I carried rules that reached into every hour. People still hunted the boy with my face. The Order had set the plan to keep me alive. No one had asked me to sign a parchment. I lived under it anyway.
Even that small exchange with someone who did not know my past was more than we were meant to risk.
I thought about the way she had looked at me. No alarm. No search for a name. For a short breath I had stood there with even lungs and nothing written across my forehead. I wanted that again. The want sat close and would not shift.
I stopped walking.
The words came out before I checked them. "What's wrong with you?"
They sounded older than me and too hard. I heard them in the damp air and could not take them back. I did not know whether I had aimed them at him or at myself.
Remus turned. At first his face gave me nothing. He held his silence, then met my eyes. The same tired sadness was there. The lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth never fully eased. That look did not belong to him alone. It came from names he still spoke in the dark, folded letters in his desk, and empty chairs at tables.
He did not step back. He did not raise his voice. He held my gaze and stayed where he was.
I let out a slow breath to stop the heat rising into my throat. "You didn't have to cut it off," I said. "You didn't even let me have a minute. We were only talking."
"She was a stranger, Harry," he said. His tone stayed calm and firm. The careful edge sat inside it. "Strangers are the risk. One person can look too closely. The ones who remember are still out there. We cannot give them anything. Not with you."
I looked away. The truth sounded worse when someone else said it plain. Thin rain had started again. Drops marked the chalk and darkened the cloth at my cuffs. A small thread of water ran from the brim of my hood and tapped my cheekbone.
We stood without speaking. The river went on with the same sound. Air cooled by a degree. A car changed gear on the road above the trees. A rook gave one call and fell quiet.
I looked back along the path. She was still by the water, smaller at that distance. Her shoulders had drawn in a little. Her head was tilted as if she was checking a sound near her knee. She did not look angry. She did not look upset. She looked steady.
She had seen that I wanted to stay. I was sure of it. She had seen something in my face that I could not hide.
Her small smile had not mattered because it was pretty. It had mattered because nothing about it asked for anything. She had looked straight at me and decided I was enough for a hello.
Tightness returned to my chest and then held in place. I let my breath pause and then move again. The feeling stayed.
"Why can't I be normal?" I said. I kept my voice low.
I had not meant to say it to Remus. I had wanted the words to leave my mouth and mean nothing.
He stepped closer and put his hand on my shoulder. His palm was warm and steady. His thumb pressed down once and then eased.
"Because that is not your life, Harry," he said.
That sentence hit harder than it should have. He did not raise his voice, but the point landed.
"You carry a scar and a past that still draw danger," he said, quieter now. "You cannot drop your guard. Not here. Not at all."
I wanted to tell him I knew every part of it. I had known it since I was a child. People still watched doors because of me. I did not say any of that. He was right.
"There are still people who want you dead," Remus said. "Death Eaters who would take the chance. You know this."
"I know," I said. The word sat sour at the back of my tongue.
"The night is not safe," he said. "Let us go home."
Home.
The word stayed in my head without settling. The cottage had warm air in the snug and floorboards that creaked in the same places each time. Light reached every room when the curtains were open. It looked safe, and it felt steady. It did not promise anything beyond that. It was a place to stop and then move again.
I turned to the river one last time. She was still there. She did not know my full name or the stories other people had written. She had not stared. She had not looked away. She had not asked for anything. She had made room on the grass. That was all.
For a long breath I was not a headline. I was a boy on a path in the evening. I wanted to sit, take off my shoes, and put my feet in cold water. I had walked away from that because I still wanted to live through the year.
Water went over the stones and made the same sound it had made when we came down the bank. It did not stop when we did not stand there.
We set off up the slope. Chalk slid under the surface mud, and I placed my feet carefully. Nettles brushed my trousers. A midge landed on my wrist. I brushed it away. At the stile my right knee gave a small pull. I kept moving until it eased.
Remus did not speak for a while. He watched the line of the hedge and the break in the trees where the lane curved. He listened in the way he had taught me. He let the silence stretch until it stopped being a fight.
When he did speak, his voice had lost the hard edge. "I am sorry," he said. "You want an ordinary hour. I know that. You have not had many of them."
I nodded. My throat felt tight again. "I wanted five minutes," I said. "Not secrets. Not lies."
He lifted one shoulder and let it fall. "And I wanted you back behind the wards before someone else chose those minutes for you."
"That's not nothing," I said. "I do understand it."
We took the last bend before the lane. A porch light clicked on in the distance and went out. A tabby cat landed from a wall and ran under a gate. The smell of woodsmoke reached us from the houses near the top of the hill.
"Harry," Remus said, as we reached the gate. "Tell me when you want me to explain my calls. Not while I am making them, but after. I'll explain why I cut a thing short afterwards. You won't have to guess."
"Okay," I said. "Noted."