I woke before first light, my mouth dry and my chest a tight, familiar weight. The dormitory was quiet. Cool air slipped in at the window and lifted the edge of the curtain nearest my bed. I lay still and listened. The boys breathed in slow patterns. Bed ropes creaked now and then. The fire in the grate had burned down to a dull glow and gave off a faint scent of ash.
I swung my legs over the side and set my feet on the boards. The wood felt cold against my skin. I sat a moment and watched the curtain move and settle. I got up, pulled on my jumper and robes, and tied my hair back from my eyes with my fingers. My glasses sat on the trunk; I cleaned them on the inside of my sleeve until the lenses cleared.
The common room was nearly empty. Morning light came through the windows in a pale strip and widened across the carpet minute by minute. The fire had burned down to red coals that gave heat only close to the grate. The armchairs were smooth on the arms from years of hands. The room smelled of ash, old wool, polish, and a trace of smoke that clung to the stone.
I took the high-back chair by the window, pulled my knees in a little, and left my shoes unlaced. The light on the floorboards grew and showed dust in the gaps. My stomach rolled. I could not tell if it wanted food or if it wanted quiet. For years, staying out of sight had kept me alive. Now my name sat on a list again, and I had a timetable that told me to go where everyone else went. My hands found the edge of my sleeve as if by habit.
I thought about breakfast. I pictured the Great Hall, benches full, forks against plates, and a few faces turning at the sound of the main doors. I stayed put. The grandfather clock by the fire creaked before it struck, and the sound went up the stairwell and faded. I had waited too long.
I took my timetable from the chair arm and stood. The portrait hole opened on the first push. As soon as I stepped into the corridor, a stream of students came past at a steady pace and forced me back half a step. The flagstones were cool through my soles even with shoes on. The stone was worn down where most feet fell. Voices carried along the corridor and bounced off the arches. Robes brushed against my sleeves. Someone to my left mentioned a missing Ministry patrol near Dover. I stared at the stair sign and kept my jaw straight.
A few faces glanced at me and looked away. Some looks were quick, harmless curiosity. A few were the kind of stare that tries to fit you into a story and, finding no cue, shrugged and moved on. I tried to hold Dumbledore's words in mind, the promise that inside these walls my name meant something again. I stood still for a few seconds. My shoulders rose and sat there. My hands went still at my sides. The others moved with aim. I had a timetable and a knot in my throat.
I looked at the parchment and found the first line. P7. There was no key on the page for the letters. I swallowed and reached the edge of a thought that said, Leave, take the nearest stairs down, cross the courtyard, and keep going until the noise thinned.
"Are you all right?"
I turned. The voice was level and clear. A girl stood a pace off with a stack of books held to her chest. Her hair was thick and bushy with curls that had not flattened even where it had been brushed. Brown eyes watched me and then my timetable. She saw my half-laced shoes and the way I held the parchment. She looked like someone who hated seeing people flounder and could not help herself when she saw it.
"I'm new," I said. I lifted the parchment. "I don't know where I should be."
She took it, scanned once, and raised her eyebrows. "Potions. Professor Snape. You will want your kit. He checks for brass scales, a clean silver knife, glass phials with stoppers, and labels."
"Where?"
"Dungeons," she said. She had already stepped off and tilted her head for me to follow. "P7 is Potions classroom seven, past the old armoury." She kept her pace. "Come on. We're in the same class."
The word dungeons did nothing for my stomach. Her certainty did. I fell in beside her.
"Thanks," I said. "That's decent."
"I'm Hermione Granger," she said without slowing. "You're not the only one who gets turned around. I made a map of the castle in first year. It's colour-coded. If you want a copy, I can make one."
She had the sort of bright, practical look of someone who makes lists for fun. No one had offered me anything like that in a long time without wanting a favour or a secret. "You made a map?"
"Yes," she said, brisk and matter-of-fact. "Some staircases move. Some landings do not connect the way you expect. Writing it down helps." She looked down at my parchment again. "You will also want quills and parchment. Snape checks."
We reached the bottom of a stair, and she paused. "Do you have your bag?"
I looked at my hands. Empty. "No. One moment."
I ran back up the boys' stairs. The steps were narrow and uneven. The stone edges knocked the side of my shoe twice. The dormitory smelled of soap, damp wool, and smoke from the banked fire. I went to my trunk, pulled the strap of my satchel tight, checked that my wand sat in its holster along my forearm, and slid the Potions kit into the bag. The brass scales touched the phials and made a light sound. I wrapped the scales in a folded jumper to stop it. I pinned the Gryffindor badge to my robes. I kept the badge cold on my chest as proof that I had walked here under my name and not simply as a refugee in another set of clothes.
I reached under the pillow and found Advanced Potion-Making: Year Seven. The cover had a crease near the bottom corner. Remus had left the books and kit when we left the last safe house; he'd insisted I take them so I would not be behind if the chance came. I picked a quill with an even nib and a notebook with clean pages. I checked my silver knife for a straight edge and no nicks. I wiped the blade with a dry cloth and folded the cloth into the side pocket. I counted seven phials with sound stoppers and set a bundle of blank labels beside them. I slid everything into the satchel and fastened the buckles.
A thought ran under all of it and would not stop. My throat felt tight, and my pulse pushed hard under the skin at my neck. You do not belong. You will ruin this. You are not what they expect. You are on your own. I wanted to say Remus's name and hear him answer from down the corridor. I wanted him to come round a corner with his sleeves rolled and tell me I would manage. He did not need many words when it mattered. Standing beside me had always kept my hands from shaking.
He was not here. He could have been behind any staff door. I did not know the route to any of them. I could not even say how many floors I had to cross. And I was not meant to lean on him now. That was the point. Turn up. Learn it. No excuses.
You said you could do this. So do it.
I pushed the last item into the satchel, buckled the strap, and checked it twice. My fingers trembled and kept moving. I wiped my palms on my robes and pulled my laces tight until the leather bit my fingers. I tied them neatly and ran back out.
Hermione waited by the dormitory door. She did not check her watch. No sigh. No look. She nodded once. "This way." She set off, and her curls lifted with each step.
"Keep left or you'll circle the third-floor landing," she said. "Some staircases rotate every few hours, and they will not pause if you wait. If a suit of armour twitches, leave it. It will be enchanted and not very bright."
I kept her shoulder in view. She did not hesitate. Hinges creaked at the same turns. A draught from a high slit window touched the same part of my neck each time. Heat gathered near one brazier and faded two arches later. I tried to mark each point. A portrait of three monks watched us, and one went back to snoring when we passed. A tapestry on our right hid a service passage; a similar one on our left covered only stone. Students pushed by in pairs and in fours with satchels against hips and books under arms. Hermione did not slow.
We took a narrow passage that sloped down. The air cooled and settled along my forearms. The smell changed to damp stone and earth. Drips sounded somewhere out of sight and kept time with our steps for twenty paces and then stopped.
"The Potions classroom is ahead," Hermione said. Her voice dropped a little and held steady. "Professor Snape is precise. He doesn't tolerate loose talk or guessing. Follow the method exactly and you'll be fine." She paused for a single breath. "He also notices everything."
The word fine was not the one my stomach wanted. The warning about attention matched what I already knew.
"Thanks," I said. My voice steadied and held.
She gave a small smile that reached her eyes. "You'll be all right."
We reached a heavy door with iron straps and scrape marks near the floor where it had caught the stone. Hermione put her hand to the handle and looked back once.
"Ready?"
I nodded. It probably looked like a wince, but it was the best I had.
She opened the door.
Cold air met my face at once. The ceiling sat low. Torchlight on the walls gave a dull orange that did not reach far. Two test cauldrons at the front cast a thin green light that showed the seams in the flagstones. The benches were long and scarred. Knife cuts ran in straight lines where blades had slipped. Old scorch marks formed dark patches near burner rings. Soot had settled along the lip of the nearest hearth and left a grey edge on the stone. Moisture beaded on the inside of the window glass and ran down in narrow tracks to the sill. A self-stirring cauldron near the front tapped its spoon against the rim at a steady pace, then went still when Snape turned.
Shelves rose to the ceiling. They were crowded with bottles and jars. Some labels had curled at the corners from steam, but the names were still clear: hellebore, asphodel, tincture of thyme, powdered horn. A few jars held roots under liquid. A few held pale organs in suspension. One long jar held four slugs that shifted by a small amount when the torchlight warmed the glass. The air held steeped herbs and old spice over a base of vinegar.
A slate board stood ready with a chalk stub set on the ledge. Brass scales lined the front bench. A water barrel near the wall gave a slow drip that hit the same spot on the flagstone under it. A thin chain hung from the ceiling with a hooked rack for drying bundles. Two bundles were up there already, tied with twine, still damp at the tips.
He stood at the front with his back to us. His robes hung straight from the shoulders without fold or crease. Chalk moved in his hand in narrow strokes. His writing was tight and even. Each letter closed cleanly. When we stepped through the doorway, he set the chalk down, turned, and looked.
Severus Snape.
Sallow skin. A hooked nose. A thin mouth in a straight line. His gaze stopped on me and did not shift. There was no surprise in it. He looked as if he had planned for this exact moment, and nothing in it altered his plan.
His eyes went to Hermione first.
"Miss Granger," he said. The sound carried without effort. "Your arrival would be more useful if it were timely. See that it is."
Colour rose in her face. It was the first time I had seen her falter. "Sorry, Professor." She moved to the only empty place near the back.
He did not follow her with his eyes. He looked at me. The room grew quiet for several seconds, long enough to hear the drip from the barrel and the tap of the self-stirring spoon when it started again. He glanced at the roll on his desk and then back to me.
"Mr Potter." Each word was separate and exact.
He had already checked the staff list; he knew the name was legitimate and treated it like an unwelcome fact.
"Late on your first day," he said, clicking his tongue. "You could spare us this kind of start. Sit."
"I'm sorry, Professor."
He raised one hand. My apology stopped on its own.
"I prefer the lesson to continue. Find a bench. We are working."
I walked down the middle aisle as heads turned and then settled. Two students leaned close, covered their mouths with their hands and spoke a few quiet words. No one said my name. They looked for long enough to try to place me and then turned back to their work. The flagstones were uneven near the joints. I watched my step and reached the empty stool beside Hermione.
I sat. I eased my satchel under the bench and set it square against the leg. Heat spread across my ears. My chest had not settled since we came in. I took a breath and let it out slowly, careful not to make a sound.
I watched the room. A student at the front adjusted their scales until the needle sat at zero. A quill scratched a little faster and then went back to a steady pace.
Snape spoke about powdered roots, order of reaction, and anti-clockwise stirring at thirty-five degrees. Chalk made a dry scrape each time it met the slate. He gave timings, temperatures, and weights without pause. He did not raise his voice at any point.
Around us, heads lowered. Quills touched parchment. I set out ink and a clean sheet. My fingers shook, so I aligned the bottle with the edge of the desk and kept my left hand steady on the page.
Hermione had her textbook open. She edged it so the spine sat between us and tilted it into the light. "We are on elemental properties," she whispered. "He has set a problem sheet. You can copy my notes later if you need them."
"Thanks." I kept my voice low. Heat ran up my face. My stomach tightened. I could not tell if it was nerves or lack of food.
We worked. Chairs did not scrape. No one coughed. Snape walked the aisles in even steps, stopping when a weight sat off-centre or a flame ran too high. Hermione wrote fast without losing the shape of her letters. Columns lined up. Headings had single underlines. Small diagrams sat next to the text with arrows and short labels.
She looked up. "You said your name was Harry Potter," she murmured. Calm and practical. No doubt in it.
I nodded. "Yeah."
"I don't recognise it," she said, and returned to her work.
"It's not an interesting name," I said and tried for a small smile.
The words were not true. I knew that. I did not want the stare that came after recognition or the questions. Not here. I wanted this room to treat me like any new student who needed a seat and a timetable.
Snape finished writing and faced the class. "First three questions," he said. "Work in silence. You will not speak."
Paper moved. Quills scratched. I read the first question twice and wrote the key terms under it to keep them in view. My thoughts trailed by a few seconds and then caught up. Heat from the nearest torch touched my right cheek. A draught from a low window cooled my knuckles.
Hermione's answers grew line by line. She broke the task down and listed reagents under each step. I copied that layout on my own sheet. Once the page held shape, my breathing steadied.
Without lifting her head, she said, "Where are you from?"
I paused. The question was simple. The answer was not. "I have been living abroad." I watched her face for any sign of surprise.
"Where?"
"A few places. My guardian moves a lot. I go with him."
"Military," she said, "or Auror work?"
"Neither. He's a teacher. He has started here this term."
"Which subject?"
"Defence Against the Dark Arts."
"Professor Lupin?"
I nodded.
She gave a short nod and wrote another line. That was all. No press for detail. No guessing. She took note and left the rest for later.
I underlined the next part of the question. Snape's robes moved. He passed behind us. I kept my eyes on my ink. His shadow crossed my parchment and moved on.
I set my grip higher on the quill so the nib sat square. Hermione's pen strokes stayed even. Her shoulders did not lift or drop. She kept at it until each point was down.
She spoke again, too low for anyone else to hear. "My parents took me abroad last summer. A week in France and a few days in the Alps. My dad fell on his skis once an hour. He crossed them every time."
I glanced across at her. Her voice stayed low and steady, meant only for me. She was trying to ease the moment. I had not planned for that. I gave a small nod.
"Moving about must help," she said. "You're used to new places, different routines. Hogwarts will set in once you learn the paths."
I lifted a shoulder. I did not want to agree and make it a lie or disagree and sound bitter. The truth sat between those. I had missed the Great Hall on my own this morning. I was only in this seat because she had stopped and shown me. She was trying, so I gave her the answer she needed.
"Maybe."
"Hogwarts is all right once you learn it," she said. "It's busy. Corridors do change. It settles. You just have to—"
A sharp cough came from the front. The sound cut through the low scrape of quills.
We stopped.
Snape stood by the board with his arms folded. His mouth was a straight line. His eyes fixed on us. He let quiet run for four full seconds.
"Miss Granger," he said flatly, "I assume you are tutoring our new arrival in the fine art of brewing Veritaserum. It will be useful to him."
Colour rose fast in Hermione's face. She started to answer, closed her mouth, lowered her head, and set her eyes on her notes.
Snape watched for one beat longer, then turned back to the board. He took up the chalk.
"Veritaserum is a truth-inducing draught," he said. "Clear, nearly scentless when properly brewed. The Ministry tightly controls its production. You will not attempt it in this classroom."
He tapped the board. "The ingredients are known—dangerous roots, certain ash, and volatile tinctures. That is not for practice here. Treat it like contraband."
"No more than three anti-clockwise stirs per hour at thirty-five degrees if you are ever instructed on legal, supervised samples. Record the exact time and temperature. Do not guess."
He lifted a glass rod and showed the depth of each stir. The faint vapour that clung to the surface cleared and returned with each pass. He set the rod down in a stand and wiped the rim with a clean cloth.
His gaze moved across the room, slow. No one shifted.
Next to me, Hermione breathed out through her nose. "He's in a mood today," she whispered, eyes on her page.
I bit the inside of my cheek and bent over my work.
Snape carried on. The chalk marked the board. A torch hissed when oil settled. Warm air brushed the side of my face. The liquid in the cauldron moved in a slow circle against the rim and tapped it at a set pace. Metal rattled when someone set a phial down too firmly and then lifted it again.
My quill dragged on the first line. I adjusted the angle until the nib sat flat on the grain. I copied the heading the way Hermione had done, then set out steps with short lines under each one. Dividing the page into sections helped. My breath came in a steady count.
Remus had shown me the same patience at a kitchen table: steady stirs, eye-level checks, and a wiped rim. "Measure and focus," he'd said. "If your attention holds, the temperature holds." The memory steadied my hands.
At the time I had nodded without fully seeing it. Now the steps here matched and made sense.
I wrote down each point, even the ones that felt far off. I could not afford to miss a line. Not here.
Snape set the chalk on the ledge and faced us. "You will complete questions four through six," he said. "You will then stand and present the weight of five grams of crushed asphodel root on your scales for inspection. If your scales are not true, we will correct them. If your weights are wrong, you will correct them."
He pointed at the first bench. "Begin."
A few students stiffened at the word present. I moved to question four. It asked for a sequence of heats over three hours to maintain stability in a base. I set the times in a column and put the degrees next to them. I wrote a small note to check whether thirty-four held when the room cooled. I worked through question five. It asked for a reagent order for a neutral base that could accept wand-wood ash without curdling. I wrote the list, then drew a short arrow beside the third step to remind myself to watch for separation. Question six asked for a reason behind ash measurement by pinch rather than spoon weight. I wrote the answer Remus had drilled into me. Ash varied by density after burning. A pinch was measured not only by volume but by the way it bound moisture in the air at the bench. That told you which wood had been burned and how recently. A spoonful by weight alone gave you a number without that context.
Hermione's answers ran down her page. She drew a neat table for question four that set time against degree. She added a margin note about cooling in this dungeon compared with the greenhouses. She wrote the word check at the end of the line in a small box and moved on.
I stood when she stood. So did the front benches. We lifted our scales and set five grams of crushed asphodel root in the pans. The room took on a new sound at once. Metal against metal as weights were set down. A soft tap as powder hit the pan. A hiss when someone breathed out too fast. Snape moved along the row without touching the scales. He looked at the line of the needle each time. If the needle sat off the centre point, he watched the student correct it. He did not speak unless a hand hesitated or a student reached for a larger weight when a smaller one would do.
He reached me. I kept my eyes on the needle. It hovered on the mark and did not drift. He did not nod. He looked for three seconds and moved on. Heat eased in my neck.
At the end of the row he stopped and spoke without turning. "If your scales do not settle, check the feet. If the bench bows, move to a flat section. If you cannot find a flat section, speak to me. You will not work on a poor surface. It compromises the lot."
A Ravenclaw boy at the front raised a hand. "Professor, my five grams set true, but they drift after I step back."
"Which foot?" Snape said.
"The left front."
"Turn the scale. Use the right rear foot in its place."
The boy did as told. The needle steadied. Snape gave a single short sound that served as approval and went back to the front.
"Sit," he said. "Question seven."
I sat. The bench was colder now from standing away from the torch. I rubbed my palms once on my robes and took up the quill. Question seven set a fault to diagnose. A base that clouded at the third hour and did not clear with a set stir. I wrote three possible faults and tested each against the steps. The burner might be a degree low. The cut on the third ingredient might be a fraction too fine and holding steam at the surface. The rim might not have been wiped after the second hour, leaving a film that fell back and seeded the cloud. I wrote a line for each and gave a fix for each.
Snape paced once across the front, then back. He set a small brass timer on the desk and turned the top. The ring sounded at twenty minutes. He lifted the chalk again.
"Pens down," he said. "You will pass your answers to the person on your right. You will check headings, units, and sequence. You will not mark content. You will circle missing units or unclear steps."
Hermione and I exchanged sheets. She checked my headings first. She circled one unit I had left off on question four and wrote unit by the line. She drew a small tick where she found clear steps and returned the page. I did the same for her. Her work was clean. I set a single circle where a figure on a ratio would help someone else follow her answer. She nodded when she saw it and added the number at once.
"Thank you," she said.
Snape watched the exchange. "You will do this for the first fortnight," he said. "Some of you know your method. Some of you do not. You will learn to write so that someone else can follow without guesswork. That is the difference between a stable draught and a mess."
He tapped the board twice. "Review questions one through seven for Friday. Now, a practical check."
A few students drew in breath. He raised a hand. "You will not brew Veritaserum. You will brew a neutral base that supports ash without curdling or scorching. You will prepare only the base. Measure with accuracy. Keep the surface clean. If the colour shifts too far from the range on the board, you will decant, clean, and start again. I will check five benches at random."
He pointed to a neat set of instructions on the board: heat to thirty-five, add measured water, prepare comfrey in even pieces, stir exactly three times at the intervals set, add plantain, hold, clear the rim, then let the mixture settle and record the colour against the chart. Keep precise time and clean benches.
"Begin."
Burners flared. I set my ring and placed the cauldron, measured carefully, checked the rod and trusted the steady heat. Knife on cloth. Jars closed. Labels to the front. Hermione moved with quiet speed; her cuts matched and her pinch measured true. I mirrored her order and kept my station tidy.
Snape moved between benches, correcting a rim here, a bowed bench there. He stopped at mine long enough to say, "Potter, three stirs. Not four. Not two." I obliged. The colour held in the band. I decanted one phial, labelled it, and set it with the others.
The timer on Snape's desk ticked down. He set it to five minutes. At the ring he raised his hand.
"Stop."
Burners went down. Flames lowered. A few students missed the ring and then scrambled. Snape waited until all flames sat low.
"If your base sits clear in the band, decant one phial, label it, and leave it at the front. If it sits outside the band, you will not submit it. You will clean your station, and you will come to my desk at the end."
Hermione decanted a phial at once. She wrote her name and the time in neat print and set the glass at the front among the others. I checked my colour a final time. It held. I filled one phial to the mark, pushed in the stopper until it met cleanly, wrote my name in plain strokes, and set it with the rest.
Snape scanned the row of glass. He lifted one and held it to the light. He checked the clarity at the rim. He set it back. He reached mine, turned it once, watched the way the liquid met the glass, and set it down without comment.
"Clean," he said.
We set to it. Cloth on the ring. Water through the cauldron. Tools wiped and dried. Scales set straight and covered. The room shifted at once to the sound of water striking metal and cloth against stone. The scent of vinegar rose again as people wiped benches. I straightened my area and checked the feet of the scales for dust. Hermione capped her ink, checked the stopper twice, and tied the string around her kit bag.
"Sit," Snape said. "Two minutes."
We sat. He did not drag out the last steps. He looked at the clock and then at his list.
"Your next lesson will start at the mark on the board. Read chapter one of Advanced Potion-Making and complete questions eight through ten on a separate sheet. Put your name at the top right and your House beneath it."
He paused. He did not look at me. "Mr Potter. You will remain a moment."
My throat went dry. Hermione did not speak. She lifted her bag and stood.
"See you outside," she said, in a low voice that did not carry.
"Yeah."
Chairs moved back. The door hinges gave a soft groan at the first push and then settled. The class filed out.
Snape waited until the last person left. He did not sit. He stood at the front with his hands on the edge of the desk and fixed me with that flat gaze.
"You are late to my lesson once," he said. "You will not be late again."
"Yes, Professor."
"You will keep your station in order. You will keep your knife sharp. You will not try to impress anyone with speed. If you cannot do a thing properly at pace, you will do it properly at a slower pace."
"Yes, Professor."
"You will write clearly," he said. "You will use complete steps. You will not assume that I can fill in your gaps."
"Yes, Professor."
A pause. He studied my face as if he were reading a list behind my eyes. "Granger will help you find the rooms you require. If she does not, you will ask a prefect. You will not wander in the corridors when you should be at a desk."
"Yes, Professor."
He watched another second, then jerked his chin at the door. "Go."
I stood, lifted my satchel, and left. The door closed with a dull sound. The corridor air was cooler than the classroom. The torch smoke had left a faint taste in my mouth. Hermione waited a short way down, set back from the flow of students so she did not block anyone who needed to pass.
"How did it go?" she asked.
"He told me not to be late again."
"That's standard," she said. "You were not the first to hear it, and you will not be the last. Come on. Arithmancy next. We'll want to be early for Professor Vector."
We fell in with the crowd. Stone underfoot, uneven where the centre wore down. The dungeon smell eased as we climbed. Air cleared at each landing. At the third turn a portrait muttered a complaint about draughts. A suit of armour twitched at the elbow. Hermione nodded to it without slowing.
"You did well," she said. "Your layout was clean. You kept your surface clear. He watched you for longer than he watched some of the others."
"I'll take it."
"He'll not say good work," she said. "If he does not take points or call your name in that tone, it's a good day."
I managed a short laugh. It came out with less strain than before.
The corridor opened, and the light improved. The smell of chalk and old books reached us from above. My hands had stopped shaking. The skin across my knuckles no longer felt tight. My breath moved in and out without the count I had kept in the dungeon. I set my palm flat against the cool stone of the wall as we took the last turn.
"Thank you," I said.
"For what?"
"For stopping earlier. For showing me the way."
She gave a quick nod. "We're in the same House. That's what we do. Left here."
We turned. Voices rose ahead. A bell sounded from the courtyard and rolled across the stone. Hermione checked the time. I adjusted the strap on my satchel so the weight sat even across my shoulder. We reached the classroom door just as the first group lined up. I stood straight and set my jaw.
By the time we left the dungeons, my hands had steadied and my head had cleared enough to hold the next set of steps.
We headed for Gryffindor Tower. Two teachers passed us in a side corridor, voices low, saying the border wards near Hogsmeade had flickered during the night and then steadied. I kept my eyes forward and my pace even. News like that travelled fast and never helped anyone arrive at class on time.
We climbed. One staircase shifted under our feet and locked again on a new landing. A portrait of three monks muttered about draughts; another scowled and pulled its curtain. My timetable said we needed to swap books for Arithmancy. I did not know what that involved. The name told me numbers joined to spellwork. Naturally, Hermione knew. As we walked, she gave a short explanation about patterns, constants and how numbers guided certain spells. She pointed out a narrow arch that hid a shortcut, and I would have missed it if she had not tapped the stone with her knuckles. We reached the Fat Lady. Hermione gave the password, stepped through, and went up the girls' staircase at speed. The stair treads accepted her and held.
I stayed in the common room by the fire and the tall window. I held my book by the spine to keep my fingers still and made myself wait where she would see me. The room worked at a steady rhythm. Footsteps crossed the rug. Chair legs moved. Someone laughed near the hearth, and another voice answered from the table by the noticeboard. The fire snapped and pushed out a brief rush of heat across my hands. A chess piece landed, and another rolled off the board and tapped the stone. The air held smoke, warm wool and polish. The scarlet hangings did not sway. People moved with purpose, collected books and quills, checked pockets for wands, spoke in short bits of talk, and came and went through the portrait hole in twos and threes.
I checked the portrait hole twice and said the password in my head. Sleep had been thin. In the small hours the stone gave a low sound that travelled through the walls. I lay awake and listened and counted breaths until the sound eased.
I looked down at my timetable. The lines wavered for a second. I blinked and steadied the page with my thumb. I thought about the teachers in the corridor and the wards. I could still feel the brush of last night's alarm in the way my shoulders sat. I told myself I would ask Remus later if he had heard the same talk, and I told myself not to rush to his office for every question.
"Are you lost?"
I turned. My book slipped in my grip, and I almost dropped it. My chest thumped once, hard enough to notice.
It was the girl from the riverbank. I knew her face at once. Without the wind off the water, she held the same quiet, only closer to the skin. The firelight showed deeper red in her hair. A few strands sat across her cheek, and she moved them back with the side of her hand. She sat on the nearest sofa with one leg tucked under, elbow along the back, and picked a loose thread near the cushion seam with her thumb. Her robes sat straight. Her tie was tight, and her collar lay flat. None of that made her look stiff. When she stood, her weight shifted from heel to toe in a small controlled movement and then settled. Her feet were set to move again without effort.
I could not place why she seemed familiar beyond the river, but the feeling was there. My chest tightened and then eased. I noticed it and held my breath for a second to stop it from showing.
"I'm not lost," I said. "I'm waiting for Hermione."
She raised one eyebrow and did not comment on the speed of my answer. She came a pace closer, brushed a speck of lint from her sleeve, and held out her hand.
"I didn't introduce myself before," she said. "Ginny Weasley."
She remembered the river. I had not expected that. I had counted on slipping out of her day the way I had slipped in. Her eyes were brown and steady. She kept them on mine.
I took her hand. Her skin was warm and dry. Her hands were small but sure, and she let go at the right time. I held on a fraction longer, caught it, and released. The fire hissed. A chair scraped. The cloth under my thumb felt smooth where it had worn down.
"Harry," I said. "Harry Potter."
The corner of her mouth moved. It changed her face, small but clear.
"Well then," she said. She folded her arms in a loose line that did not close me out. "See you around, Harry."
I nodded. I could not think of a useful reply that did not sound forced. When she said my name, the sound sat clean and solid inside my chest, and for the first time since arriving, I could breathe without the name feeling like a borrowed thing. I turned for the portrait hole. The Fat Lady tutted when the frame swung open. I muttered, "Sorry," and stepped through. The corridor air was cooler and clean. I drew a full breath and felt it settle in my chest.
I did not move far. The last few stairs sounded behind me in quick steps. Hermione reached me two minutes later with her breath even and a pile of books under one arm. She was already talking about predictive runes, prime values and how certain sequences held a spell on a stable line. I nodded where it fit and made the right sounds. I heard her, but my attention was not on the detail.
I could still hear Ginny say my name. The sound sat in my chest and in my head at the same time. She had said it plain and direct. No test in it. No weight placed on it. It did not carry pity or curiosity. It carried a simple fact. It belonged to me. That was new. The hot knot behind my ribs tightened again when I replayed it. It stayed.
I reached the Great Hall at midday and learnt something simple and embarrassing. I could not even take a place on a bench without getting in the way. I clipped someone's shoulder, paused at the wrong end of the table, and stood too long while other people moved past with plates already filled. I did not yet know how to move through this school.
It was not only the lessons that unsettled me. The building itself was large, bright, and difficult to handle. A staircase pulled back when I put my foot on it. Portraits answered questions with full sentences and sometimes questions of their own. A suit of armour gave a dry rattle when I passed and muttered something rude in a voice blocked by dust. Students, first in tens and then in hundreds, travelled along paths they knew by habit. They shared remarks over plates, reached for the same dishes without colliding, and drank pumpkin juice while old jokes passed between them without gaps. They belonged. I did not. I did not know the rules of these corridors or the pattern of a day here.
Hermione and I found spaces at the Gryffindor table. She set her books in a neat line, put her cutlery straight, and poured juice with a steady hand. I tried to sit without knocking anything and almost sat on a satchel. I apologised, but the sound dropped under the noise. The bench was tighter than I expected, so I kept my elbows in. A dish of roast potatoes drifted past, and I leant back to avoid it. I took a cheese sandwich because it was close. The bread was soft and fresh. The butter tasted salty. The pumpkin juice was cold and sweet and left spice at the back of my tongue. Steam rose from platters further along the table and carried pepper and gravy.
Hermione turned to me with that focused look she used for difficult homework and mislabelled vials. She lowered her voice a little. "So," she said, "what do you make of everyone so far? Anyone caught your eye?"
She asked without warning. My hand stopped before my plate. "What?"
"You heard me," she said, and kept her eyes on me.
I coughed into my goblet and almost spilt juice on my sleeve. "I have not really…" I stopped. She was enjoying herself. "I have not met anyone. Not properly."
She paused with her fork above a roasted carrot. "No one?"
"I ran into someone," I said too quickly. "In the common room."
"Oh?" Her tone was mild. "Anyone I know?"
There was no reason to hide it. Saying the name felt strange. I paused before I spoke. "Ginny," I said.
Hermione's face went still for a second. I saw it. "Ginny?" she asked, keeping her tone even, though something shifted underneath.
"Red hair," I said, and felt foolish at once. "Brown eyes. In the common room. She said her name was Ginny Weasley."
Hermione set her fork down with care so it did not scrape the plate. "She is the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain," she said. "One of the best we have had in years."
"Oh. I wouldn't know. She seemed sound."
Hermione frowned, weighing her words. "Be careful, Harry," she said, lowering her voice. "I would not go for her if I were you."
"Sorry?"
"Ginny is lovely," Hermione said. "She is also complicated."
"Complicated how?"
Hermione circled her spoon once through her soup, watched the surface settle, then lifted her eyes to me. "A lot of boys tried to get close to her in the last couple of years. She is bright, funny, confident, and very good on a broom, and she looks the way she looks. You can picture the attention." She paused. "She does not welcome most of it."
I kept my mouth shut. It felt safer. My breath snagged.
"Is she with someone?" I asked. I aimed for casual. The strain showed.
Hermione did not answer at once. When she did, her voice was quiet. "She was. Michael Corner. For a long time. Everyone thought it would last. No rows that spread through corridors. No silly breaks before exams. It looked steady."
The space between my ribs went tight. "What happened?"
"He died," Hermione said, with no extra detail in her tone. "Last year."
No one at our end of the table spoke for several seconds. A knife clicked on a plate further down. A chair leg grated on stone. Warm air from the food rose against my face and made the gravy smell stronger. My fingers pressed around my goblet and stayed there.
"He was sixteen," she added. Saying the number made it worse. "He went missing after the last match of the season, Ravenclaw against Slytherin. They found his body two days later by the river. People avoid the subject now. It was awful."
My fingertips dug into the table edge. The grain marked the skin. My fingers went cold. The mention of the river stayed in my head and did not move on. I kept my eyes on my bowl. The soup smelt of pepper and stock. The taste had gone. My mouth was dry.
"Did anyone find out what happened?" I asked. I kept my voice low so it would not travel along the bench.
Hermione shook her head. "Not properly. There were rumours. No open attacks, nothing public. Work done at night with little trace for the Aurors to write up. The Aurors released almost nothing. And Ginny never spoke about it, not to anyone I know."
I swallowed and felt the scrape at the back of my throat.
"She did not break down," Hermione said, even quieter. "Not where people could see. She kept turning up. Training, captaining, revising, taking exams, speaking when spoken to, smiling when it was expected. Questions stopped after a while. People let her carry on. I think she wanted that."
"She hides it well," I said. The words were small.
Hermione's mouth pulled into a brief, tired smile. "Yes. Most people stop looking for signs. She can manage the day, but anything that needs trust, or time, or patience from someone else is harder."
She studied my face the way she read footnotes, only softer. "Just be careful, Harry. She has had enough to handle. I know it is not really my place, but I would feel awful if you were hurt, or if she was."
I nodded. Not because I knew exactly what I was agreeing to, but because nothing else seemed sensible. I did not know what, exactly, I was meant to be careful of. Ginny had not flirted. She had not leant in. She had not tipped her head or thrown a line for me to catch. She stood up, met my eyes, said her name, and left. That was all. I could not get her out of my head.
We ate in a slow, practical way after that. Conversation rose and fell around us. A plate of sausages drifted past on someone's spell and stopped in mid-air when a second spell crossed it, then moved on again. The Slytherin table broke into a short burst of laughter and went quiet. The Hufflepuff table sang two bars of something and stopped when a prefect lifted a hand. I finished the sandwich because it was there, drained the goblet, and put both hands flat on the table to keep them still.
The afternoon carried on. A staircase shifted before I reached the top step and made me walk back and try another route. A portrait of a warlock in a tight collar told me I was going the wrong way and refused to say which way was right. Students crossed halls with plates and books, calling to each other above the noise. I caught names and pieces of plans, none of which I could hold. My thoughts would not stay in order.
Arithmancy ran long in my head. Professor Vector wrote a clean board with numbers and runes in straight columns and explained how values settled when the base stayed constant. The chalk clicked and held my attention in short patches. I took notes in boxes because it helped me see where one part ended and the next began. The room smelt of chalk, old paper, and ink. The windows were high. Light sat on the top edge of my desk and did not reach my lap. When I stopped writing, my hand trembled, so I wrote more, and it eased.
My mind returned to brown eyes and a small, contained smile. I replayed the sound of her voice by the river and in the common room. She had said my name in a plain way. No test. No delay. When the memory ran, a hollow in my stomach eased. When it stopped, it returned.
The riverbank stayed clear. Bare feet on wet stones. Arms loose at her sides. Chin up to keep hair out of her mouth. No one else was near the place she had chosen to sit. Cool air moved across the skin there. She saw me, considered, and did not send me away. The small lines at the corners of her eyes eased when she smiled. I could call up the exact shape of that change.
Now I had her name. I repeated it in my head. I told myself it did not matter, that I was tired, that I had imagined the way her eyes held mine. I told myself I was not used to steady attention from someone my age and that the lack of shock over my name had knocked me off balance. None of that altered the fact that thinking of her felt simple and strong at the same time.
She made me alert and unsettled. My shoulders tightened. My breath shortened when I realised I had been staring at a blank part of the page for too long. I forced my eyes back to the numbers. The corrections from Professor Vector were clear and fair. She did not waste words. When I wrote the right line, she tapped the desk once with the tip of her quill. It left a faint mark in the wood. She did not praise beyond that and did not need to. I adjusted the next line and kept going.
At the end of the last lesson my shoulders ached and my neck felt tight from keeping my head turned at the correct angle to follow speech without missing anything.
My thoughts had not held still at any point. They returned to the same place each time I stopped concentrating on a board or a page. Brown eyes. A quiet voice by the river. A hand offered in the common room that was warm and dry with a firm grip and a clean release. The memory ran on its own without effort. It steadied me and unsettled me at once.
I saw the way she stood. Both feet set. Shoulders level. Eyes steady on the person in front of her. No checking the room for reactions. A smile that did not change shape to suit another face. Hands resting without fidgeting. Breathing even when the common room filled and the voices grew. Those details suggested strain held under control. I wanted to be near her, and I was cautious at the same time. The two things sat together and did not resolve.
None of this helped with what I was meant to be doing. I had come here to learn, to stay alert, and to be ready. I had promised. I repeated the promise in my head while chalk tapped the Transfiguration board, and instructions about non-verbal preparation moved across the room faster than I could have managed last year. I stayed with the instructions, wrote them down in small, clear steps, and did not let my mind wander beyond the length of a breath.
I set rules for myself as I walked out into the late afternoon. If I saw Ginny again, I would look away. If she spoke, I would answer, keep it short, and move on. No questions. No waiting around. No letting her under my skin.
I repeated the rules and knew I would break them, and that small, certain fact felt like the start of something I could not yet name.