10:42 a.m.
The digits on the bedside clock glowed bright and precise. I sat up at once, mouth dry and heart thudding; I had missed Transfiguration.
Sunlight fell in a narrow strip across the floorboards, and dust rose when I pushed the covers back. The other beds were empty, curtains open, trunks shut. A faint rise of voices and footsteps carried up from the common room. The air had the clean, cold smell of stone and old ash.
I grabbed my watch from the bedside table, knocked two textbooks onto the rug with a flat thud and tugged my robes on. My shirt buttons were uneven, so I fumbled them into place with fingers that would not move quickly enough. I shoved my tie into my pocket, jammed my feet into my shoes and took the spiral stairs two at a time. At the turn my shoulder scraped the wall and left a smear of chalk on my robe sleeve.
There was no way to slip in unnoticed. I pushed the heavy oak door open. Chalk scraped the blackboard, and Professor McGonagall turned; her spectacles caught the light, and her mouth set in a straight line.
"Mr Potter," she said, voice cool. "You're late. Take a seat. Pick up Miss Granger's notes after class."
She gave a brief nod, the matter settled. The staff had been told I was a transfer from abroad and to leave the reasons at that. Students would get the same story, nothing more.
"Yes, Professor," I said, voice rough as heat climbed into my face and the back of my neck. I crossed to the nearest empty chair, kept my steps steady and sat; the wood felt cold through my robes. Fabric rustled. A chair leg squeaked somewhere behind me. I kept my eyes on the desk and slowed my breathing until it felt under control. One of the portraits on the wall looked my way, then turned aside without a word. They all knew not to mention me. The silence had become its own kind of protection. Even Professor Snape had kept his distance, polite but quiet. Whatever he remembered, he didn't make a show of it, and I was grateful for that.
On the blackboard was a numbered sequence for reversing animation on small objects. Across the top she had written "Counter-sequence for Inanimate Stabilisation". The room smelt of chalk and warm wool with a faint trace of desk polish. A draught through the window cooled the sweat at my hairline while wands made short arcs, quills tapped and a clock ticked near the door.
Professor McGonagall pointed with the end of her wand. "Watch the reversal at step four. Put the emphasis on the second syllable and shape each vowel. Do not overdo the flick."
I opened my notebook, set my ink and quill, and copied the headings in straight lines. I underlined the counter-sequence twice and left a clear space for steps one to six. My hand shook a little at first. It settled once the words began to fill the page.
On the far side of the room, Justin Finch-Fletchley clipped the pitch of the final syllable. His textbook twitched, sprouted two stubby legs and shuffled six inches. He made a startled sound and snatched his wand back. Professor McGonagall did not raise her voice. She flicked her wand once. The legs withdrew, and the book lay still.
"Thank you, Mr Finch-Fletchley," she said. "We can all see why step three matters."
A few students let out quick, quiet laughs. Chairs creaked as students adjusted their posture. I kept my head down and wrote the correction beside step three: short vowel, no rise.
"Miss Patil," Professor McGonagall said, "step four, please."
Parvati spoke the words with care and kept her wand hand level. A quill that had been walking in place on the table lost movement and dropped back onto its feather. The class watched in clean silence. McGonagall gave a small nod.
"Better. Again from the start."
I used the pause to catch up and noted the steps: step one, isolate the original activation; step two, separate the anchor from motion; step three, shorten the vowel and lower the tone; step four, reverse the flick; step five, hold for two counts; step six, clear release.
Hermione's neat script slid into my head. She would already have the margin notes, the cautions and the diagrams. I added a line to remind myself: borrow Hermione's diagrams after lunch.
Professor McGonagall walked the centre aisle. Her heels made clean, measured sounds on the stone. She paused behind my desk. I kept writing. Ink flowed smooth and black. She did not speak. After a moment, the faint scent of her tartan wool moved on.
"Pairs," she said. "Stabilise one object each. Five minutes."
Benches scraped. I slid my wand from my sleeve and tested the grip. My fingers had warmed. The weight felt right again. I chose my inkwell and set it at the edge of my desk. The glass caught the light from the window. I pictured the steps in order and mouthed the consonants once without sound. My stomach gave a small twist of nerves and then settled.
Across from me, a Hufflepuff I did not know well raised his chin. "Ready?" he said.
"Ready," I answered.
We worked through the sequence with care, matching the counts. My inkwell lifted, tipped and steadied, returning to still glass without a tremble. Relief loosened my shoulders. I noted the exact shape of the wrist movement that had worked and wrote it down before it could slip.
The bell went. Quills clicked shut. Books thumped into bags. Professor McGonagall raised her voice a fraction over the scrape of benches.
"Homework is the written sequence with annotations. Practical check on Monday. Dismissed."
I waited until the first rush eased, then capped my ink, wiped the rim of the bottle, and packed my things. My pulse had settled. The heat in my face had gone. I stood, kept my eyes forward, and joined the stream to the door with a steady pace, ready to find Hermione and get the rest of the notes.
I heard my name before I saw her. "Harry!" Hermione jogged up and stopped at my side, folding her arms and lifting an eyebrow.
"You missed quite a lot," she said, not unkindly. "We covered the basics of spell reversal and how animated objects keep residual energy. You will need to practise tonight, or you will fall behind. McGonagall was not pleased."
"I noticed," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "Didn't mean to sleep through it. I overslept."
Her gaze softened. She did not pick at it. "You'll catch up. I can help if you want."
"Thanks," I said, and meant it.
We turned the corner. The flagstones were cool through my soles even with shoes on. The torches gave off a faint hiss and spat now and then. A draught bulged the bottom edge of a tapestry and slid across my shins. A portrait of a witch with a lace collar clicked her tongue when we went by and muttered something under her breath about manners. Students travelled in small groups. The conversation rose and fell in small groups rather than a single loud shout. The air smelt of warmed stone, polish, and old smoke.
"There's something new on the Gryffindor noticeboard," Hermione said. "They've announced a Promenade Dance."
"A what?" I said.
"A formal dance in February. Valentine's theme," she said, eyes bright. "Dress robes, partners, a printed programme, the lot."
"It's September."
"Yes, but these things need planning," she said, giving me a look. "People have already started talking about it. Some students invite people from other schools."
"Seems a bit much. It's five months away."
"Harry, it's tradition," she said.
"Whose tradition?"
"For everyone here," she said without missing a step. "There's music, dancing, and dress robes. You make a night of it. People treat it as practice for formal occasions later on."
I let out a breath. "What, Hogwarts policy now? Learn to hex, learn to apparate, learn to waltz, then get married?"
She rolled her eyes. "Don't be so cynical. It's a chance to do something normal. Fun."
"Normal" did not sit well in my mouth. Outside these walls people were still making lists of who had not come home. Inside, someone had written neat lines in black ink on a cream notice and pinned it to a board with brass tacks. A sign-up sheet hung under it with a fresh quill tied on a string.
"Still," I said, "suppose you're going, then?"
"Might. If someone asks."
Her tone was flat in a practised way, which told me there were already ideas in her head about timings, homework around it, and how to fit study in the week before. I pictured myself at the edge of that list.
I nearly asked if anyone had asked her already, but I kept quiet. We passed the staircase to the third floor; it shifted one step to the left with a low scrape, then stopped. Hermione did not even glance at it. She had already adjusted her footwork.
The idea of the dance tightened my stomach. I could hear Remus in my head: fuss and noise, a crowd with nowhere to step away to. He would close his door and read. He always said he preferred a quiet Saturday to anything with music you could feel through a floorboard. He was right about the crowds. He was not wrong about the noise. Even so, I felt a pull I could not explain. It had nothing to do with steps or music. It was about who might go. And who might be asked.
"Anyway," Hermione said, nudging my elbow, "you should give it some thought. Even if you're not planning to go, someone might ask you."
That had not occurred to me. I glanced at her.
She smiled in a way that said she had already counted the possibilities. "You'd be surprised."
"Highly unlikely," I said.
She gave a small, doubtful sound.
She was not finished. "Have you thought about who you might ask?" she said, trying to sound casual and failing. The look in her eyes said she had a list in order already.
"Not really," I said, rolling a shoulder.
"You've got time and options," she said. "People are already asking around. Parvati reckons Neville is going to ask Luna, and apparently Terry Boot is trying to get back in with Lisa Turpin."
The names meant little to me. "Right."
"What about Ginny?" Hermione said.
Hearing Ginny's name tightened my stomach. I kept my voice level. "What about her?"
"Come on, Harry. You look at her every time we're in the same room. Don't pretend you do not."
"You told me yesterday she was complicated and to leave her alone. What changed? I wasn't going to."
Her eyebrows went up. "Well," she said, a bit too bright, "just don't leave it too long. You'll only get beaten to it."
I did not like the feel of that. I changed the subject at once. "What about you? Anyone you're thinking of going with?"
Hermione went pink. She lifted a hand into her hair and wound a strand round her finger. She leaned closer and lowered her voice. "Parvati told Lavender that she overheard Seamus telling Dean that Ron Weasley is thinking of asking me."
"Oh," I said, trying to follow the chain. "Right. Wow."
She let out a small squeak into her sleeve and shook her head, then looked me straight in the eye. "Don't tell anyone. I mean it. If you breathe a word, I'll hex you. I don't want to jinx it."
"I won't," I said, palms up. "Promise."
She smiled properly then. For a few seconds I forgot that I did not care about dances. Seeing her pleased put an easier shape on the whole thing. The corridor grew busier. Robes brushed my arm. A strap from someone's satchel bumped my hip. A strong smell of polish lifted from the floor where the stone was smoother. A draught ran along the wall near the base of an arch and cooled my ankles.
I should have been thinking about the next class. My timetable rustled in my pocket when I put my hand on it. Instead my thoughts left the talk about dress robes and cuts and returned to what had been sitting in my head since yesterday.
Ginny Weasley.
I had not seen her since breakfast. That was probably for the best. When she was near, I struggled to keep my thoughts in a line long enough to finish a sentence. It was not dramatic. I lost focus. My hand had the hollow tremor it gets after holding a wand out too long and needing to rest. My breathing changed too. I noticed it because I had trained myself to notice it. I had used my breath to steady my hands in worse places than a corridor.
Hermione switched to colours. Emerald green or black. Trim or no trim. Hair up or down. I gave answers that could pass, but none of it stuck. My eyes kept checking the end of the hall even when I told them not to.
Hermione checked her timetable against mine. "Muggle Studies for me," she added, sliding a book into her bag and fastening the clasp. "You've got Divination next."
"We'll meet at lunch?"
"Of course," she said. "And try not to be late again."
She gave me a firm little smile and joined the flow of people, bag bouncing lightly against her hip. The sound of her shoes on stone faded into the general noise.
I turned the other way and then swore under my breath. I had left my Divination book upstairs.
The Gryffindor common room was quiet when I climbed through the portrait hole. The fire was steady in the grate, and the heat reached halfway across the room. Two second-years sat on the rug with a chessboard between them. One of the white knights tapped its base against the square and scowled at a bishop. Someone at the far table flipped through notes and chewed the back of a quill. No one looked up.
I went up the boys' staircase, crossed the dormitory, grabbed my Divination text from the bed, and headed down again with the book under my arm. The leather was dry at the edges and left a faint smell of dust and ink on my sleeve.
That was when I saw her.
Ginny stood by the hearth with one foot on the arm of a chair. She had pushed her robe sleeve past her elbow and was tightening the strap on an elbow guard. She wore a full Gryffindor Quidditch kit. The crimson cloth was clean but softened by use, and the seams at the shoulders had that slight pull you get from flying often. Her captain's badge was pinned above her left breast and flashed when she moved. Her hair was pulled back with a clasp. A few strands had worked loose and lay against her cheek. Her boots were laced tight, the leather dark with polish. I could smell broom polish and a trace of grass when the air shifted.
She looked up before I could pretend I had not seen her. The left corner of her mouth lifted. I recognised it from the first time we spoke. This time there was nothing uncertain in it. Her eyes were clear and steady, and her shoulders were set like someone ready to get on with the next thing.
"All right?" she said softly, amusement in her voice. "We meet again."
I stopped mid-step and blinked twice. "Hi," I said. The word came out rough. My mouth was dry, and I had to swallow before I trusted my voice again.
She stepped closer at an even pace. From this distance I could see her eyes clearly. The irises were brown with a lighter ring near the pupil, and the firelight from the hearth showed a faint gold tint at the edge. A small mark sat near her left eyebrow, and there were three pale freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her hair was pulled back, but a short strand had worked free over her cheek. She tucked it away with two fingers and then let her hand fall to her side.
My chest tightened, and my heartbeat thudded in my ears. I adjusted my grip on the book in my hand. The cover edge was hard against my palm and left a shallow line in the skin.
"I didn't get the chance to ask yesterday," she went on, tone steady. "Are you new? Everything was chaos, wasn't it?"
I nodded too quickly. I looked down at my shoes to steady myself. The left lace had come undone, and dust from the hearth rug had stuck to the end. I pressed my heel on the lace to keep it in place and raised my eyes again.
She met my gaze and did not look away. Warmth climbed up my neck to my face. I could feel the skin heat under it. My fingers tightened on the book, and the paper sleeve shifted with a dry rustle.
"Someone told me you lived abroad?" she said, head tilting a little, a small dimple showing on her left cheek. "Bit of a mystery, aren't you? Quiet. You keep to yourself." Her mouth curved, and her eyes held mine. "What's a well-travelled lad like you doing at Hogwarts?"
Quiet and private. That had been the rule for years. It still sat in me out of habit.
"I came with Remus," I said. It was not a secret; Dumbledore had made sure the school records were in order. It still felt unusual to say it out loud to someone I barely knew.
"Oh," she said and nodded once as if it matched what she had guessed. "Yeah, I've seen him about. He is hard to miss."
She paused. Her eyes stayed on my face for a moment longer than before. "So are you," she added, with a small shrug and a half-smile.
Heat reached my hairline. I stepped back without thinking, and the book slid against my hand. I caught it before it fell and felt my ears grow hotter.
"I… I should go," I said, too loud. "I'm going to be late for Divination."
She did not move. One eyebrow lifted. "You're heading the wrong way," she said, light and easy.
I kept walking and must have nodded. My legs moved on their own, and Ginny's voice stayed with me.
So are you.
The words sat clear in my head along the corridor and up the stairs. The common room warmth dropped away. The air in the next passage was cooler and smelled of stone dust and old ash. The carpet runner gave way to bare flagstones. A boy in second-year robes squeezed past with a stack of textbooks and muttered a quick apology when his sleeve brushed my arm. I tightened my hold on the book and picked up speed.
At the first landing I crouched to tie my lace. The end had picked up grit and left a faint smear on my fingers. I wiped it on the hem of my robe and stood again. A portrait to my right shifted in its frame, and an old wizard cleared his throat. I kept my eyes forward. My breath came a little faster than it needed to. I slowed it and counted to three between each step.
The turn to the North Tower never stayed simple. I took the narrow stair that opened near the old armour stand and climbed. The bannister was cold and rough where the varnish had worn; my footsteps echoed down the stairwell and then softened as the angle changed. A draught slipped down the shaft and cooled the sweat at my hairline. I blinked to clear my eyes and carried on.
A slit window at the next bend showed a strip of pale sky. Light fell across the step and showed the uneven dips in the stone where years of feet had passed. My shoulder brushed a threadbare tapestry, and a faint smell of dust and wool rose up. I moved it aside with my knuckles and turned left.
By the time I reached the upper corridor, my breathing had settled. The air up there always felt thinner. The stones held the day's chill, and the sound from the lower floors faded to a dull murmur. I could hear my own steps and, under that, the soft scrape of someone else's shoe leather.
Professor Trelawney came into view from a side passage with her arms full of shawls. Layers of fabric hung from her elbows and trailed behind her. The colours were deep, and the edges were trimmed with beads that clicked together when she walked. Her perfume reached me before she did. It was heavy and sweet, with a floral note that sat on the back of my tongue and left a strange taste. I swallowed, and it did not shift at once.
She stopped when she saw me and peered as if the angle of the light might be playing tricks. Her glasses made her eyes look very large. They widened further and then narrowed a fraction. Her mouth parted and closed again. She glanced at the book in my hand and then at my face, as if checking she had the right person.
"Ah, the transfer student," Professor Trelawney said, folding her long, ring-heavy fingers together. "I felt an unfamiliar energy this morning. Something guarded and hard to read. A boy who walks where others do not."
I blinked, forcing down a sigh. "Er… right," I muttered, already regretting not having feigned illness to try to skip the class altogether.
She swept past me without waiting for a reply, her many shawls billowing behind her as if a breeze had followed her in. She reached the front of the classroom and, with all the self-importance of a queen taking her throne, draped her shawl across the nearest table before sinking into her high-backed chair.
The classroom was nearly full; incense smoke hung in the air, and the room felt uncomfortably warm. Incense curled lazily through the air, and the faint reddish glow of low-hung lanterns cast dancing shadows on the tented ceiling.
I couldn't concentrate. My thoughts kept veering off-course, away from the lesson, away from the vague scent of lavender and rosemary that clung to Trelawney's shawls, and straight back to Ginny.
Her voice still echoed in my head, far louder than it had any right to. So are you.
It wasn't just distraction—it was discomfort too. Being seen, even for a moment, felt risky. Dangerous. I wasn't used to it.
I'd replayed it over and over since leaving the common room: her voice, her smile, and the spark in her eyes when she'd said it. I couldn't tell if she was teasing or serious, or both. And for the life of me, I didn't know which possibility made my heart beat faster.
"A mix of sixth and seventh-year energies," Professor Trelawney said. "Interesting combinations."
I wasn't sure what that meant, but it probably explained why some of them didn't look old enough to be in seventh year.
I scanned the classroom quickly, looking for an empty seat—anywhere I could keep my head down, finish the hour, and get out without making a bigger fool of myself.
And then I saw her.
Of course.
Ginny Weasley.
She was already seated near the windows, where the filtered autumn light spilt through the hazy glass and caught the red in her hair. She was leaning back with the sort of ease that made it look like she didn't have a care in the world, her elbow resting on the desk, her chin balanced in her palm. Her hair had mostly escaped the ponytail now, falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Her Quidditch uniform was rumpled, and there was a faint smudge of mud on one of her sleeves.
She looked like she belonged there, utterly and entirely.
And then she looked up.
Our eyes met. For a second, maybe two. Her lips twitched, the beginnings of a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth; faint, knowing.
Almost… triumphant.
My heart gave a traitorous lurch, but I forced myself forward. She was just a girl. Just another student. Just Ginny Weasley.
That's what I told myself, anyway.
The only empty chair, naturally, was beside her. Fate, or Trelawney's twisted sense of humour.
I sat down without a word, trying very hard not to notice how the faint scent of wind and broom polish clung to her uniform or how her fingers tapped idly on the edge of the table. I didn't look at her. I didn't dare. I could feel the smirk still playing at her lips even without seeing it.
Instead, I forced my attention to the blackboard, where Professor Trelawney had scribbled her elaborate handwriting:
Page 96: Palmistry: Lines of the Hand and What They Reveal
Palmistry. Fantastic.
Of course. The one subject was about showing what I had spent years trying to hide.
I opened the textbook with a bit more force than necessary and found the page, pretending to read. The words blurred. I blinked and tried again.
And then, through the heavy air, her voice rang out, high, lilting, unmistakable.
"Mr Potter."
I jerked slightly, my heart skipping.
"Yes, Professor?"
Trelawney drifted forward, her shawls trailing behind her. She hovered just ahead of her desk, eyes wide behind her magnified glasses, her arms clasped in front of her like some great oracle awaiting prophecy.
I sank lower on the bench, hoping she'd pick anyone else. Being noticed in this class felt dangerous, even if it was only over a book.
"Since you are new," she intoned, "perhaps you would do us the honour of reading today's passage aloud?"
I swallowed hard. Nodded. "Alright."
"And perhaps," she added, tilting her head, "you might share with us your interpretation. Page ninety-six, if you please."
Ginny shifted slightly beside me, and out of the corner of my eye I saw her fold her arms, clearly settling in to be entertained.
I cleared my throat, trying to ignore the sudden dryness there, and began reading.
"Palmistry is the ancient art of reading the human hand. The lines that traverse one's palm—the Life line, Heart line, Head line, and Fate line—are said to reveal truths about a person's emotional state, lifespan, and destiny. The presence, absence, or depth of these lines may offer glimpses into future struggles or triumphs. A long life line suggests vitality, while a forked heart line may signify emotional conflict… or romantic turmoil…"
The words trailed off slightly on the last line. I felt Ginny shift again next to me. I didn't dare look at her.
The universe clearly had a sense of humour—mine, specifically.
There was a small, long pause before Trelawney exhaled a long, theatrical sigh.
"Yes… fascinating, isn't it?" she murmured. "The secrets our very flesh holds. So much is written on us already, if only we knew how to see."
She turned to face me directly now, her gaze suddenly sharp despite the foggy lenses. "And what, Mr Potter, does that passage mean to you?"
I hesitated. Part of me wanted to shrug. Another part, the larger part, was painfully aware of the girl sitting beside me.
"I suppose…" I began, slowly, "it's saying that we're carrying signs of what's coming. That maybe… our paths are already set, even if we haven't noticed."
There was a brief hush. Then, from behind the thick rims of her glasses, Trelawney's eyes lit with something between pride and foreboding.
"Very good," she said. "And do you believe it?"
I could feel Ginny watching me again.
I paused, then said carefully, "I think… Sometimes people want to believe in something so much, they start seeing meaning where there isn't any."
There was a long stillness; even the incense seemed to sit.
Trelawney didn't blink. Her lips parted just slightly. "Hmm," she said finally. "How very pragmatic of you, Mr Potter. But remember… Even the most rational minds may find themselves turned by the unseen. The future does not always wait for belief."
She turned away then, her shawls rustling softly as she glided toward the next row of students, lost in whatever private vision she was already spinning.
The room returned to its low murmur.
I shifted lower in my seat, dragging my eyes away from the textbook and fixing them determinedly on a speck of dust floating. After a moment, curiosity won out, and I risked a sideways glance at Ginny.
She was smiling again, but it wasn't the cheeky, smug smile from earlier. This one was quieter. There was a stillness to it, thoughtful, almost—like she was weighing something up inside her head and hadn't quite decided whether to say it aloud.
"Romantic turmoil, then?" She murmured under her breath, her voice pitched just low enough that no one else could hear.
I didn't turn my head. Just stared straight ahead, pretending to study the chalkboard. "It's just a book," I said flatly.
She made a soft humming sound, flipping a page in her own textbook with deliberate slowness. "Mmm. I'm sure."
I didn't reply. I didn't trust myself to. My brain felt a few seconds behind everything, as though it hadn't caught up from the moment she'd looked at me with that unreadable expression.
The rest of the lesson passed in a blur, not entirely thanks to Professor Trelawney's ever-burning incense burners, which were currently producing enough smoke to make my eyes water, but more because my thoughts refused to stay tethered to anything sensible. Every now and then I'd catch the scent of Ginny's shampoo, or maybe it was just her, and forget entirely what we were supposed to be learning.
Trelawney was gliding between the tables now, voice soft and dreamy as she addressed the class.
"Now, my dear ones… We shall begin our first practical of the term. You must pair off. Grasp your partner's hand. Examine the lines carefully. The truth is written there, waiting to be discovered…"
There was a scuffling of chairs and rustling of parchment as everyone turned to their neighbours.
Before I'd even moved, Ginny had already extended her hand across the table, palm up. Her fingers were open in invitation; steady, relaxed. Her eyebrows lifted.
"Go on, then," she said simply, as though daring me. "Get on with it."
I stared at it. Her hand was slender, warm, and freckled from the summer sun. A few calluses marked the base of her fingers—Quidditch, no doubt—and her nails were short and neat.
I hesitated. It wasn't the hand itself. It was what it meant—to take it. To look. To read her, in some way.
"It won't bite," she added, her lips quirking into the faintest smirk. "No need to look so glum."
I gave in, slowly reaching out. The moment our hands touched, my pulse stumbled. Her skin was warm and steady. It shouldn't have felt like much, and yet, somehow, it did.
I cleared my throat, tore my eyes from our joined hands, and glanced at the diagram in the book. It might as well have been in Gobbledegook. None of the lines made sense, and I was fairly certain my brain had taken the rest of the period off.
"Right," I said, feigning a confidence I didn't feel. "This one… that's your Life Line, I think. It's long. Which probably means, er… long life."
Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Probably?"
"Well, it's not exactly guaranteed, is it? No one's handing out certificates."
She gave a quiet laugh. "Go on."
I tried to focus. My finger hovered over her palm. "Your Heart Line…" I said, more cautiously now, tracing it lightly. It curved upward, running toward her index finger. "That's meant to mean… you're expressive. Open with your feelings. Affectionate. Maybe even a bit… passionate."
Her eyes lifted to meet mine then. "Maybe?" she echoed, voice soft.
I felt my ears go hot. "Look, I'm just reading what it says. Don't hold me responsible for the translation."
I pulled my hand back a bit too fast, as though the contact had stung. I busied myself flipping pages, pretending I was suddenly fascinated by the fine art of interpreting thumb mounds.
But Ginny wasn't finished.
"My turn," she said lightly, before I could object. Her fingers closed around my hand and turned it gently palm-up.
She didn't hesitate. Her touch was sure but not rough.
"Your Head Line's strong," she murmured, almost absent-mindedly, tracing the centre of my palm. "Means you're clever. Thoughtful. Bit too serious, probably."
I gave her a dry look. "You got all that from one line?"
She didn't even blink. "It's in the book," she said innocently, though the corner of her mouth twitched.
Her thumb moved lower. "This one's your Fate Line," she said after a pause. "It is deep. That suggests outside forces have shaped your life more than most people's."
I kept that to myself. Divination can be vague, but it pulls on things people notice, and I did not want anyone to notice anything that might make them ask uncomfortable questions.
Her fingers stilled.
"It doesn't always mean something bad," she added quickly, softer now. "Just that the world around you… has a louder say than most people's."
I didn't speak. My throat felt too tight for words. She wasn't wrong. That line on my palm might as well have been the story of my life, carved by other people's choices, rewritten by the charm that had stolen my name and left the rest of me behind.
Trelawney's voice cut through the classroom then, rising over the murmurs. "Now, now! Focus, all of you. The lines speak only to those who truly listen."
Ginny released my hand and leaned back in her chair.
"You've got a complicated palm," she said quietly, eyes fixed on me now. "Not easy to read."
I opened my mouth to answer, but something in her expression stopped me. She wasn't teasing. Not this time. There was something gentle there. Like she saw more than I was letting on.
The bell chimed. Chairs scraped and books snapped shut. A low swell of chatter rolled through the room as students rose to gather their things.
Ginny stood first, slinging her bag over one shoulder.
"Divination's always good for a laugh," she said breezily. "See you around then, mystery boy."
And just like that, she was gone, vanishing into the corridor in a swirl of red hair and careless confidence.
I remained where I was for a few moments longer, staring down at the lines etched into my palm. My hand still felt the shape of hers long after she'd gone.
Complicated. That felt right, especially for someone who, by all accounts, should not exist.
Hermione spotted me the moment I stepped out of the Divination stairwell. Her head turned in that purposeful way of hers, and her eyes narrowed, as if she had just found a missing page in a planner.
"There you are," she said, relief flickering behind the usual bossiness. She'd probably been circling the corridor for ages, knowing I'd lose track of time again. "I've been waiting ages. Come on, we're going down to the Great Hall. I'm absolutely famished."
I fell into step beside her, still feeling a little disoriented; whether from the incense or the strange thrum that lingered in my chest after that lesson, I wasn't sure. The conversation with Ginny kept coming back to me and would not go away.
Hermione was already talking again, brisk and efficient as always, filling the corridor with the rhythm of her voice. It felt oddly grounding.
"Oh—and I nearly forgot," she said, glancing sideways at me as we made our way past a huddle of Third Years arguing over Chocolate Frog cards. "Hogsmeade this weekend. You're coming with me."
I blinked at her. "Hogsmeade?"
"Yes, Harry," she said, a touch theatrically. "You do know the village with all the shops? Butterbeer? Zonko's? An actual high street?"
"I know what Hogsmeade is," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "I just didn't realise I was already on the invite list."
Hermione gave me a flat look. "You are now. Honestly, you've been with Professor Lupin every spare minute since you got here. You need a break."
"He just worries if I vanish for too long," I muttered, though she wasn't wrong. I didn't add that he had every reason to. Secrets didn't keep themselves. "Anyway, I should probably check with him first."
Remus insisted on approving every trip for the first few weeks. The Order liked to keep track, though most of them only spoke to him, not me.
She shrugged. "Tell him he's welcome to join us if he can tear himself away from his marking. Though I doubt Professor Lupin spends his Saturdays queueing for Honeydukes."
That made me smile this time. "No… probably not his thing."
We reached the Entrance Hall and joined the flow of students making their way into lunch. The hall was full of chatter and cutlery; the noise hit my ears sharply. Warmth poured out from the enchanted ceiling overhead, casting gentle light across the house tables.
Hermione tugged at my sleeve, gesturing toward Gryffindor. "Come on. I need food before I start hexing people."
I was halfway to following her when my eyes landed on Ginny.
She was about halfway down the bench, wedged between two of the Gryffindor Chasers, laughing at something one of them had just said. Her posture was relaxed, shoulders swaying slightly with the rhythm of her laughter, and she was holding a pumpkin pasty in one hand as if she'd forgotten it was there. Her hair was pulled back in a loose tie, but several strands had slipped free and caught the afternoon sunlight. For a second, it almost glowed.
It struck me again how ordinary it all looked. How far it was from anything I'd known.
And then she turned and saw me.
Our eyes met, and I stopped moving.
The sounds of the hall faded to a dull murmur, and the warmth in my chest twisted into something sharper, something I couldn't name. I didn't look away this time. I didn't even think to.
She didn't look away either.
Her expression didn't change, not at first. But there was something in her gaze that unsettled me—a steadiness that felt too close to recognition. Then, gradually, her lips curved into a smile. It reached her eyes, and it was meant for me.
My chest dropped. Not with fear, but with a sharp, unfamiliar weight that told me the moment would stay with me without needing to analyse it, that this moment—this exact look—had lodged itself somewhere deep, somewhere it wasn't going to be easily shaken free from.
And then Hermione nudged me.
"Harry," she said, slightly pointed. "You all right?"
I blinked, snapping out of it. "Yeah," I said quickly. "Fine."
She gave me that look when she knew I was lying but hadn't yet decided to press the issue. "You've got that look again."
"What face?"
"The same one Ron gets whenever he sees food."
I huffed a short laugh, trying for nonchalance. "It's nothing. I'm just hungry."
Hermione didn't look convinced when she glanced at Ginny, but thankfully, she let it go and led us to a spot at the far end of the Gryffindor table. I sat down, forced myself to pile food onto a plate, and tried to act normal. Like I hadn't just stumbled into something that would make keeping a low profile impossible, something that might undo every careful piece of the life Remus and I had built.
Her smile kept replaying in my head, clear and certain.
And part of me, one I wasn't quite ready to admit out loud, didn't want it to fade. Not when being seen, even for a moment, felt like remembering who I was.
Hermione hadn't missed it, not that I'd been terribly subtle. It was written all over me, apparently. The lingering glances, the way I seemed to tune out mid-conversation whenever a certain redhead walked past. And Hermione decided to address it with all the tact of a Bludger to the ribs.
"I'm not sure she's your type," she said, her tone careful but laced with that unmistakable note of warning as she reached across the table for a ladle of gravy and then began arranging slices of roast chicken on her plate with infuriating precision. "Ginny, I mean."
I blinked. For a moment, I hadn't registered she was speaking to me at all. My mind had been elsewhere, still echoing with the sound of Ginny's laugh from earlier that afternoon, still haunted by the memory of her hand in mine during Divination.
"Sorry—who?" I asked, not quite convincingly.
Hermione gave me a look. One eyebrow arched in mild disbelief, curls bouncing slightly as she tilted her head. "Don't insult my intelligence, Harry."
I attempted a shrug, though I had the sinking feeling it looked more guilty than nonchalant.
"Ginny Weasley," she said plainly. "Quit looking at her. Honestly, you nearly walked straight into a suit of armour yesterday outside the Charms corridor."
I tried not to smile. I really did. "That only happened once."
Hermione folded her arms. "And twice during our free period, and again this morning. Don't think I haven't noticed."
I picked up a fork and stabbed absently at the potatoes on my plate. My appetite had waned somewhat. "Right."
"I'm just saying," she continued, with the kind of measured tone that meant she'd rehearsed this in her head, "you might want to think twice. She's… not who you think she is."
I looked up at her then. "Meaning?"
Hermione gave a little sigh through her nose, as though she hadn't wanted to be the one to say this, but someone had to. "She's well liked," Hermione said carefully, "but she can cause trouble. People talk. She keeps people guessing and does not always make things easy for others. Ask around; boys who go after her do not always come away smiling."
Funny how warning me only made me want to understand her more.
"Trouble?" I echoed, frowning. "She doesn't seem deliberately cruel."
Hermione paused, fiddling with the edge of her napkin. "I didn't say she was cruel. Just… inconsistent. One minute she's laughing with you; the next she's off pretending it never happened. And she's turned down practically everyone who's tried. Dean Thomas, for starters—Ron says it was awkward for ages after that."
I nodded slowly, though something about the way she said it didn't sit right. "So what? She says no, and suddenly she's the villain?"
"She leads them on," Hermione said, her voice a touch sharper now. "She doesn't mean to, I think. She just… keeps people at arm's length. Starts to let them in, then panics. It's not exactly kind, but I can understand it."
I leaned back slightly. "Are you saying she misleads people on purpose?"
Hermione hesitated, her lips pressing into a line. "No. Not on purpose, maybe. But it still happens."
I stared at my plate, trying to process the tangled thing she was trying to tell me.
"Maybe she's just… waiting for the right person," I said quietly. "Someone who doesn't make everything worse."
"And you think that's you?" Hermione asked.
Her question landed harder than I expected. I did not know. Part of me wanted to say yes because I wanted it to be true. Another part of me counted all the things that made me unsuitable: the secrecy, the orders, the habits. I said, "Maybe. I don't know."
I didn't know if I was worth Ginny's time. And yet, there she was. Always just at the edge of things. Impossible to ignore.
"She's still hung up on Michael, you know," Hermione added, more softly now. "She won't admit it, but… well, you don't spend months with someone and just forget overnight."
That surprised me. "You think that's what this is about?"
"I think," she said, quietly but firmly, "that she's not ready for anything real. Not yet. And I don't want to see you get hurt."
There it was, the real reason. It wasn't just gossip or judgement. It was a concern. Protective, maybe overbearing at times, but genuine all the same. I knew Hermione was speaking from the heart.
"Right," I said at last. "Thanks. I'll bear that in mind."
She seemed to accept that, nodding slightly. Then, as if to clear the air, she gave a sudden, exaggerated groan and dropped her fork with a dramatic clatter. "Honestly. Enough about Miss Weasley. I really hope you're coming to Hogsmeade this weekend. I need a break. You need a break. We all need a break."
I let out a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. "Yeah… sounds good."
Hermione grinned and nudged my elbow. "Brilliant. We'll drink too much Butterbeer, browse a few shops, and maybe even hex Pansy Parkinson if we're feeling ambitious."
I laughed, though the noise felt a little hollow. Across the Great Hall, Ginny was chatting to Katie Bell, her hands animated as she spoke, her hair tumbling over one shoulder in a way that seemed completely effortless.
I looked away before she could catch me.
But the image stayed with me anyway. The kind that settles in before you realise it's too late.
Her smile stayed with me as I ate.
Something had changed, and for once, I didn't know whether it would save me or expose me.