The bell for the last lesson rang. I stood too fast, and my head spun. Black spots pooled at the edge of my sight, and I gripped the desk until they eased. My legs felt heavy. My heart thumped, and my palms were damp. This tiredness felt different. It came from a whole day of keeping my face still and my answers ready.
Arithmancy had been a tangle of numbers and runes. Hermione kept her voice low beside me: steady, precise, not stopping. My head throbbed from the strain, from the talk, and from the watching eyes. To others I probably looked out of place in a seventh-year class. I stacked my books with more determination than skill, shoved them into my satchel and made for the door before my brain started arguing. The corridor was full of people and noise. Students pushed past in both directions.
I kept my shoulders down and threaded through gaps. Cloth rubbed my sleeves, and a rucksack jarred my hip. I caught bits of talk about Quidditch scores and Hogsmeade weekends and who had borrowed whose notes. Each bump tightened my chest. It had been a day of nudges, questions and measuring looks. Nobody meant harm, not exactly, but their curiosity came out in questions and in the way they watched me. By the time I reached the Entrance Hall, even a sleeve brushing mine felt like too much.
I had still made it. No cauldrons burst, no portraits singed and no scene to get me sent back to Remus before sunset.
I pushed through the doors. The afternoon air cooled my face and throat. I kept going until the steps gave way to grass. Then I slowed. The satchel strap slipped on my shoulder, and the castle noise dropped behind me.
The grounds were quieter. Voices came from the Quidditch pitch, and now and then a broom cut across the sky. A whistle sounded once and stopped. The air cooled my cheeks and the tip of my nose. The lake's surface was dark. The trees along the forest edge hardly moved. I walked to the nearest shade and stopped beneath a broad-trunked tree. Thick roots pushed the turf up near my boots. The bark felt rough under my palms. My shoulders let go a little as I leaned back.
I stood with my eyes half closed and counted my breaths. A light breeze moved across the lawn and reached my cheeks. From the castle came a short burst of laughter, then nothing. The ache in my shoulders eased a little. Away from eyes and questions, I could pull in air properly.
Light from the leaves moved small patches across my hands. I let myself drop the thoughts for a minute and just stay put. I had earned this quiet. For today, getting through was enough.
Movement on the steps drew my attention. Remus came down at an even pace. Tiredness sat in his shoulders and the corners of his mouth, though his tie was straight and his robes neat. A small group of students followed at a distance. Their voices carried a little. They tried to look away when he glanced up. They were not subtle about it.
He did not like it. He had spent years in rooms where people did not notice him. This new attention did not feel like praise to him. He wanted quiet.
We crossed paths near the edge of the lawn. I tapped his sleeve and tried for a grin. "Looks like a few people were watching," I said.
He gave me a flat look, then a brief twitch at the mouth that almost passed for a smile. His eyes kept the same strain. "I'm not the only one," he said quietly. "You've had your share too." His tone was calm, but his face held a warning and a touch of worry. Attention itself is a risk. We had checked the school registers that morning. My name was on the rolls, and no warding alarms triggered when staff said it. Even so, we agreed to avoid my name travelling through a crowd.
I lifted a shoulder. "First day. People stare at anyone new."
"How was it?" he asked.
"Loud and complicated. I didn't set anything on fire."
"That is a respectable start," he said. He glanced past me at the lawn and the path toward the greenhouses, then looked back. "Any trouble in class?"
"Snape announced me. No fuss."
"Good," he said.
We were quiet for a short time. The wind shifted and brought the smell of cut grass and the faint damp from the lake. On the pitch, a whistle sounded, then stopped. I adjusted the satchel strap and felt the hard edge of a book press against my ribs.
"A few of the girls have been watching," I said with a forced laugh. "You'll need a plan."
"I've got one," he said. "Closed doors and office hours in writing."
He tried a smile again, and it faded quickly. Up close, the skin around his eyes looked thin with strain. He straightened his cuff.
"Have some food before dinner," he said. "You look pale. Eat something with it next time—bread, cheese. You'll think more clearly."
I wanted to tell him the cold made thinking harder, but I only nodded.
"I wished I'd had the appetite to finish the soup." Tiny, helpless shame tightened my stomach.
I started telling him about my day. I told him about nearly walking straight into a staircase as it shifted, how Hermione had steered me away from a corridor that looped back on itself, and how I had tried to keep my face calm whenever I did not know which way to turn. I wanted him to hear that I was managing. Not only getting through, but doing all right.
"And I made a friend today," I said. I tried to keep my voice even, but we both knew what that could mean.
Remus turned towards me. His mouth softened, though his eyes held a steady caution. I could see he was ready to remind me of the rules that kept me safe.
"Is there something wrong with that?" I asked before he could begin. "Am I not allowed to have friends?"
He let out a small breath and pushed his fingers back through his hair. He did that when he wanted to keep the edge out of his voice. "Blending in is fine," he said quietly. "But proper friendships lead to questions. Friends will ask who you are, where you're from, and why you move so much. Some answers can't be given plainly."
He held my gaze. A crease formed between his brows. "You can't risk giving the world more information than it should have," he said. "A harmless detail in the wrong hands can go further than you think. If that happens, the protections we have start to loosen."
Heat rose in my face and neck. "I would never risk it," I said. "I've spent years staying out of sight. I know what's at stake."
Something in his expression shifted, a quick sign of regret. I gave him a thin, stubborn smile. "I'm not stupid, Remus. You don't have to be so careful."
His shoulders eased a little. The tension around his eyes reduced. "I do not think that," he said. "I trust you. I want to spare you trouble before it starts."
It came back to the same point: trust. Remus offered it in careful amounts.
I drew in a slow breath through my nose, held it, and let it go. "There won't be trouble," I said. "I just want to feel normal for a bit. That's all."
He reached for my hand and pressed it once, firm and steady, then let go. His grip stopped my hands shaking for a moment.
"We must still be careful," he said. "You're here to live and to learn. You're also here to practise staying alive. The Order's trust isn't something they carry for you. It's part of what keeps you safe."
I nodded. The word 'safe' had changed shape for me. It had meant locked rooms, false names, and short routes between doors and windows. Now it meant learning to sit in a hall with hundreds of people and keep my face calm while everything in me wanted to scan every exit.
Remus watched me. His patience did not slip. It helped, and at the same time it made me want to argue again, just to prove I could. I could not keep anger with him for long. He had put his name and his job behind this, and I knew it.
We turned back towards the castle. Afternoon sun warmed my shoulder blades through my robes. My chest felt lighter than it had in the morning, although thoughts about Ginny, Hermione, and the size of Hogwarts stayed busy in my head. No matter how well Remus planned, or how carefully I moved, I could tell this place would not stay simple.
Not long before, I had wanted the day finished. Now, as we stepped into Remus's rooms, the room was quiet, and I did not know what to do with myself. The air smelt of old paper, candle wax and rubbed wood. A thin trace of tea hung there as if a cup had been set down earlier. The quiet held small sounds: a coal settling in the grate, a faint whistle at the window, and the tick of a brass travel clock on the shelf.
The room itself had order to it. Two armchairs faced the fire. A narrow table sat between them with a saucer and a folded handkerchief on top. Shelves lined one wall with books stacked tight, spines faded from years of handling. Under the window a low cupboard held a kettle, two cups and a jar of loose tea. The window showed the slope of the hills and a strip of the lake. The surface of the water caught the light in short flashes when the wind moved.
Remus folded himself into the armchair by the window. He drew his legs in and set a heavy book across his lap. His brow creased now and then as he read. Sometimes his lips moved with a line he wanted to check. He looked settled. He always did with a text like that. I stood near the hearth for a few seconds and felt unsure where to put myself.
I used the poker to shift a thicker coal to the centre. The motion made my fingers move without thinking. The fire did not need it, but the action gave my hands something to do. I looked towards the window seat, then away again. The view did not change much. A few birds crossed it. Otherwise, nothing.
There was barely room to walk four steps without turning. I tried it once and stopped. It felt pointless. I pressed my lips together to keep the sound in my throat from coming out as a sigh.
There were no chessmen on the table. No set of model brooms. No cards. It left me alone with thoughts that would not settle. I tried to imagine what other seventeen-year-olds were doing in their rooms. Maybe stretched out with shoes off, passing Chocolate Frog cards and arguing about Quidditch. Writing lines of nonsense in the margin of an essay. Planning to slip down to the kitchens for a late biscuit. Talking about people they liked. Lives that had steps that made sense.
I had homework from three subjects already. I had written it down in a neat list at the bottom of each page in my notebook. It looked organised in a way Hermione would like. Most students didn't bother; they trusted they'd hear reminders in the common room or that they'd remember without writing them down.
I told myself this was good. It meant I looked prepared. It meant I cared about lessons.
The truth was simpler. None of it felt real. Knowing the answers beforehand made me feel false, as if I was pretending to be tidy instead of actually being tidy. I could start now, finish before the kettle boiled, and no one would notice. The idea left me empty.
I could not stand while Remus read. It made me feel like a spare part. I pulled my satchel onto the small table and tipped the contents out in a line. Ink bottle, quill, parchment, Advanced Potion-Making: Year Seven, Charms notes and the Gryffindor timetable card with its smudged corner. I checked the quill tip with my thumb; it felt smooth. My thumb trembled slightly.
"Tea?" Remus asked, eyes still on the page.
"Yes, please," I said. My throat felt dry from talking and the walk back.
He slipped a bookmark into the book and rose without fuss. The kettle took a minute. Water hissed as it met the leaves. He poured, passed me a cup, and sat again. The steam rose against my face. The first sip warmed my mouth and then dropped to my chest. I felt steadier.
He glanced at my spread of books. "How bad is the list?"
"Manageable," I said. "I can finish it."
"You don't have to race through it," he said. "Take your time and learn the castle as well. That matters."
"I know."
I opened Advanced Potion-Making and set a clean sheet beside it. I copied the next heading in even letters and underlined it. The scratch of the quill made a neat sound against the quiet. From the corridor came a short murmur and then nothing. I wrote the first answer. It came quickly. The second followed.
Remus turned a page. The clock on the shelf ticked, light and regular. I drank more tea. The heat reached my fingers through the cup.
I paused, then said it plain. "The friend is Hermione. She helped me find my way. She offered to copy me a map. She did not press me with questions."
He nodded once. "Good."
"And," I added, "I met someone else. Briefly."
He looked up and waited.
"Ginny Weasley," I said. "In the common room. She said hello. That is all."
His face stayed neutral. "All right."
"I did not volunteer anything," I said. "I kept it simple."
He sat back. "I know," he said. "You are careful."
The page lay open. My hand hovered and stayed there.
The first question was about Doxy venom. It could stop someone else. I could have answered it half-asleep. I still stared and tried to make my hand write one line, any line that looked like progress.
I tapped the quill against my chin and lowered it again.
I was meant to blend in and act normal and do what students did. So why did lessons, talk, and homework feel forced? I kept doing the actions without feeling like I was part of them. It felt as if I was copying a life someone else had lived.
In the end, I leaned forward, dipped the quill, and began to write. My eyes tracked the words, but my thoughts did not hold to Doxy venom or reaction rates. They went back to the face I could not seem to leave alone.
Ginny Weasley.
I wrote the first answer, put a full stop, and paused again. The light outside the window faded to a low grey. The fire gave a brief hiss as a coal fell and settled.
I needed to keep my head busy with anything that kept it from circling to the same point. I tried to fix my eyes on the page. It did not help. Every quiet moment took me back to her.
Her name. Her voice. The way her eyes held mine for a fraction longer than needed in the common room. None of it came from anything she had done on purpose. It was still there.
Hermione's words replayed in my head. "I wouldn't go for her if I were you. She is complicated."
Complicated. Most people here carried something heavy from the war, whether they said it or not. That was true for me as well.
I was not planning anything. I had only just met her. All I knew came from a few minutes in a room and from one conversation with Hermione, and that part had been hard to listen to. It did not matter. My thoughts kept going back anyway.
I forced my focus to the parchment. The lines blurred.
I let out a short breath and slid the book away. Every time I closed my eyes I saw her gaze again. Brown. Steady. Not soft. There was something firm there that did not move.
Now there was another name to hold with hers.
Michael Corner.
Her boyfriend. The boy who died last year.
I leaned back and folded my arms. The fire threw a steady heat against my knees. I tried to picture him and could not. Was he the sort who made people laugh without trying? Did he sit with her near the water and plan matches and weekends and simple things? Did he care for her? Did she know it?
A tight ache grew under my ribs.
I knew what it was to lose someone and to carry the space they left. People did not always show it. Some kept busy. Some smiled when they were meant to. Some put it behind their eyes where only a few could see. Ginny had looked sure of herself. That did not rule anything out. She could still be doing the work of holding herself together. I recognised the effort.
There had been another detail as well. The way she looked at me. Not in recognition, not in the way I had feared, but with a direct, curious focus. As if she meant to add up what she saw.
I rubbed a hand over my face and sat forward. I had to read something. I could not afford trouble on the first day. Remus had been clear. No distractions. No close ties. No risks.
Ginny did not feel like a risk. She felt like a question. I wanted to answer it. That could be trouble of a different sort.
The chair across from me creaked. Remus crossed the rug with quiet steps. He looked from the Potions text to my face and lifted one eyebrow.
"Hard at work, then?" he asked, mild and dry, setting his book down near the door.
I closed mine and exhaled through my nose. "Not really. I have read the same part about fluxweed five times."
His mouth bent in a small, knowing smile. He did not press. "Shall I ask a house-elf to bring dinner, or would you rather the Great Hall?"
The thought of the Great Hall—noise, talk, people turning to look—made my shoulders tense.
"Here is good," I said at once. "I have had enough of crowds."
He nodded as if he had expected that. He leaned towards the fireplace and spoke a short request. A house-elf arrived with a soft pop and set a tray on the table: roast chicken with crisp skin, steamed potatoes cut into neat halves, butter that softened as it touched the heat of the plate, a basket with two warm rolls, and a jug of pumpkin juice that beaded at the glass. Another pop brought pudding. Treacle tart. My fork paused. Remus only watched and said nothing.
We sat at the small table. The room held a steady warmth from the grate. The air smelled of roast fat, thyme, and the sharp sweetness of the tart. The shelves threw long, straight shadows across the floorboards. We ate without much talk. The chicken was tender. The potatoes were plain but hot. The pumpkin juice was cold and a touch too sweet; that suited me after the salty food. When I took the first bite of tart, the pastry flaked under the fork, and the syrup sat thick on my tongue. It tasted of lemon, sugar and a hint of clove. The warmth in my chest lasted longer than I expected.
Remus broke the quiet first. "How much did you get through?"
"Enough," I said. "Potions is fine. The reading for Charms is fine. Arithmancy is a bit of a thump to the head, but I can keep up if I copy Hermione's structure."
Remus dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin and leaned back. "My first proper day teaching in years," he said, almost to himself. "Better than I expected. I had not thought so many students would still care about Defence Against the Dark Arts."
I gave him a sideways look. "I reckon half of them signed up after you walked in."
He raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
"Well," I said, grinning, "you do not have the Professor Binns look. You actually look alive."
He let out a quiet chuckle. "Let us hope that is enough to keep their attention. If they find some enthusiasm for Defence, perhaps they will give the rest of their studies a fair try as well."
I pushed a piece of potato through the last of the gravy. "Do you ever get bored in class?"
"Of course," he said at once. "Especially when I was your age. Why?"
"I was bored today," I said. "Arithmancy. Not my thing."
He did not look surprised. "You are not alone. It takes a particular sort of mind for Arithmancy and a tolerance for a great many numbers."
I laughed under my breath. "I haven't got either."
He warmed his hands around his mug. Steam rose straight up for a second before it thinned in the room's heat. "Find what suits you. Try everything. Keep what fits and set aside the rest."
"Is it really that easy?"
"It can be," he said. "If you give yourself room to be curious. That is half the point of school, Harry. Not only spells and facts, but learning yourself, what holds your attention and what does not, and what matters to you."
I thought about that. About the pull I had felt all day, that had nothing to do with numbers or lists or even Potions.
His eyes narrowed slightly, reading my face. "Sometimes curiosity leads to things best left alone."
I rolled my eyes. "I'm not stupid."
He made a small sound in his throat, not agreement or dismissal, and reached for another roll. "I know. Clever boys can still be reckless."
I dragged my fork through what was left on the plate. I wanted to tell him how the day had closed in, but I did not; he would say the same thing: keep focus, keep the cover. Mission first. I still had to sleep and wake here and speak to people with my real voice.
I reached for the treacle tart instead and let the rest sit in my head.
When we finished and the fire burned down to low, steady embers, Remus picked up the book he had left earlier and set it in his lap without opening it. His eyes were on the cover, then he looked at me. I must have looked restless, elbows on the table and chin in my hand. He hesitated, then said, in that mild way of his, "How about a walk? Or better, fancy a fly?"
My head came up. "On the Quidditch pitch?"
He smiled, the lines at the corners of his eyes easing. "I believe the sky is still open."
My chest eased and my hands stopped trembling. I stood before he had finished.
We crossed the grounds in near silence. The evening air was cool on my face and hands. The grass held damp against the soles of my shoes. Behind us, the windows were lit. From this distance the voices inside merged into a low hum.
The school brooms were set in a straight line along the stands. A brass plaque on the rack read Checked by Hooch, last full service: August, the date scratched in by hand. The handles were worn smooth and dark. The bristles on some had splayed out. I ran a thumb along one handle and felt the dents where other hands had gripped it. A faint smell of varnish rose from the older handles when the rack shifted.
I swung a leg over and pushed off. My stomach dropped as the broom lifted. Cold air pressed against my cheeks and ears. The broom was slower than the one I used before we left, but the balance felt right. My thighs settled against the wood, and the strain in my shoulders eased as the air took most of my weight. I leaned in and rose. The pitch below broke into patches of green and dark. The cold made my eyes water; I blinked to clear them. The stands formed clear, hard lines. The sky held the last colours of the day: lavender at the horizon, a thin edge of gold and deepening blue above. The only sounds were the rush of air past my hood and the steady whistle of Remus's broom to my right. He kept pace and gave me room.
I turned, dipped, pulled up, and let the broom run. Each movement was answered straight away. My hands settled into the grip without needing to think about it. My breathing found a slow, regular count. For the first time since I had arrived, my thoughts finally slowed.
When we drifted back down, my legs felt steady under me. My palms were dry and a little rough from the handle. My jaw had unclenched without my noticing.
We left the pitch and walked the edge of the Black Lake. The wind lifted off the water and cooled the sweat on my neck. The surface held a dull sheen. Small waves pushed in and broke in short lines at the shore. The grass lay flat in patches where people had sat earlier and sprang back under our steps. The smell of wet earth lingered by the bank.
A handful of students were still out on the lawns, unwilling to go in. Two sat on a bench, heads close, hands around cups. A small group stood under the trees, their talk reduced by the wind to short pieces I could not string together. A single broom cut along the far side of the pitch and then dropped from view. A dog barked once, somewhere nearer the greenhouses, and stopped.
We stayed on the path and said very little. Remus kept his hands in his sleeves. I matched his pace. The quiet felt appropriate after the day.
We reached the curve where the path turns back towards the main steps.
We had taken only a few steps when a voice called across the lawn, high and urgent.
"Harry! Oi, Harry!"
It took me a second to understand she meant me.
Remus stopped. The shout did not bother him. My name did. Years of hiding had trained both of us to treat my name as private, even if no one here remembered why.
I turned, checking in case there was another boy behind me, but it was Hermione, waving from a bench near the path. Her hair had lifted in the wind and fallen out of place. She still wore her robes, her tie loose at the collar. She looked fully awake and ready to continue the day.
She beckoned me over with both hands.
I looked at Remus. His mouth did not tighten, but his shoulders did. Hearing my name carry across open ground drew attention he did not trust. It was public, hard to predict, and not easy to steer away from. That was the sort he always tried to keep from me.
Leaving Hermione standing would have been rude.
I cleared my throat. "Er, Remus, this is Hermione. Hermione Granger."
She stood at once and brushed off her sleeves. "Lovely to meet you, Professor."
Remus gave her a careful smile that was polite and kept a little distance. "Miss Granger. A pleasure. It's getting late; we should be back before curfew."
He did not sound harsh, only final. His eyes flicked to the sky; curfew lamps had started to glow along the path.
Hermione's face dipped for a second, then she steadied it. "Of course. I wasn't going to keep you. I just saw you walking and thought I'd say hello."
Something in her steady way of speaking eased a knot I had not noticed in my chest. I felt less invisible.
"I am glad you did," I said quickly. "Maybe we could talk another time?"
Her eyes lifted. "I would like that."
Remus exhaled, quiet enough that only I heard it, then turned towards the castle. I gave Hermione a small nod of thanks and jogged after him.
On the walk back he said nothing about Hermione. He gave me two pointed looks that suggested a longer talk and left it there. I did not ask what he meant. I was too tired to dig for the lesson he wanted me to find, and even if I had tried, I did not have the patience for it.
The warmth in the Entrance Hall hit straight away. The light from the sconces sat bright on the stone and took the edge off the air. The height of the archways still unsettled me in a small way. For years the name Hogwarts made my chest ache when I read it. Now I was on the floor it stood on, and the feeling had not gone. It was only clearer.
I said goodnight to Remus outside the common room and gave the password he had told me. Professor McGonagall had arranged a temporary allowance for my first week. Remus was authorised to use the password for drop-offs and checks only. Fresh oil glistened on the Fat Lady's painted sleeve, and the canvas made a small crack as it swung.
The common room was quiet. The fire held steady in the grate and gave off even heat. A few students worked at tables and spoke in low voices. I did not stop. I took the spiral stairs to the boys' dormitory. Someone had drawn the curtains round the other beds. I did not need any more questions.
The room was plainly comfortable. The ceiling rose cleanly above the beds. The rugs were worn flat in the places where people's feet always fall. The tall windows showed a faint glow on the grounds and a hard shine on the lake. A single lamp near the door put a small circle of light across the floorboards. The air smelled of wool blankets, old polish and faint wood smoke. The smell clung to the beams from many terms. It calmed my breathing.
I sat on my mattress and let the quiet reach my ears. I could pick out the low crackle from the common room below, the dull tick of an old clock on the far wall, and a faint rush of wind against the windowpanes. I unknotted my tie, set it on the trunk, and undid my robes. My shoes left scuffs of dry grass on the rug when I kicked them off. I set my wand on the trunk within reach and slid under the covers. The sheets were cool on my calves and warmed where my skin touched them. The mattress was firm under my hips and shoulders and supported my weight. The pillow held the shape of my head and gave just enough rise for the back of my neck.
I lay on my side with my knees slightly bent. I kept my eyes on the patch of window I could see through the curtain gap. The lawn lay still, and a small lamp by the forest edge burned on.
My thoughts did not slow. Names and images kept returning: Ginny's face, Hermione's voice, Remus's warnings, the list of new names from lessons and the directions to rooms I couldn't yet place. Every time I tried to hold one thought, another broke in.
I planned to sort it out in the morning. I would make a list at breakfast and give each task a time. My body had other plans. The muscles at the back of my shoulders loosened. My jaw unclenched, and the skin around my eyes grew heavy.
Just before I fell asleep, I thought of her name again.
Ginny Weasley.
I did not move. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth and tried to hold the rhythm. I wasn't supposed to want trouble. I'd promised myself I wouldn't invite it, but my mind kept going back to her. There was something in the way she had said my name that made me think someone else might already be watching.