"The point of us being here is not to socialise," Remus said quietly.
His tone was calm but firm. I felt my stomach tighten; he only ever said rules he meant. The more people I spent time with, the greater the risk someone might notice what had been erased.
I glanced at him. He sat back in the armchair by the hearth. Firelight showed the lines around his eyes and deepened the hollows under them. "I think it would be rude not to go," I said, keeping my voice steady. "It's Saturday. No lessons. I wouldn't exactly call that shirking."
He did not answer at once. He breathed out through his nose, the quiet sound he always made before giving a reluctant yes.
"Go, if you must," he said finally. "But keep it short. Don't make a habit of being careless."
"Just this once," I said too quickly. I did not want to sound rebellious. I also did not want to spend every weekend shut away. "I'm not planning to make a habit of it."
"I should hope not," Remus replied. There was a faint edge in his voice. He did not need to raise it to make the point clear. The way he held himself said he believed I was risking things.
Guilt pricked at me, but I pushed it aside. I only wanted a few hours of normality, just one afternoon that wasn't filled with watchful eyes or quiet judgement. For once, I wanted to be a teenager. One warning from Remus wouldn't stop me this once.
By half past one I had showered and dressed, dragged a hand through damp hair, and hoped I looked less tired than I felt. The dormitory was silent when I left. The walk to the common room was simple and quiet; no bells rang, and no lesson lists waited at the door. People laughed without checking their wrists. That felt ordinary.
Hermione sat by the window with Dean, Parvati, Lavender, Seamus and Neville, their voices overlapping. I had expected just the two of us. My stomach went cold. She looked up and stood immediately; seeing her surrounded by them made my chest tighten more than I expected. The others already had places that made sense. I did not.
"Harry! Sorry, slight change of plan."
"A change of plan?" I asked, frowning.
"Hogsmeade will have to wait until next weekend," she said quickly, already crossing the room towards me. And then she lowered her voice when she added, "Filch has been sniffing around. We're going to the Room of Requirement instead. It hides itself from him."
"The Room of Requirement?" I repeated, uncertain.
"Yes, come on. It'll make sense when we get there." She grabbed my arm before I could object.
I followed, reluctant, trailing behind as we left through the portrait hole and made our way up the corridors. They were loud, laughing, their voices bouncing off the stone walls.
"How did everyone hear about it?" I asked as we climbed.
"My twin in Ravenclaw gave me the password," Parvati said, laughing. "Someone posted it in a few common rooms along with a coded note on the noticeboard for anyone checking in person."
"So Filch couldn't find it?" I said.
"Exactly. The Room only shows itself if the castle wants it to. Filch gets lost trying when the wards are set against him," Hermione added, scanning the stairwell.
By the time we reached the seventh floor, the others were practically buzzing with anticipation. I hung back a few steps, unsure whether I even wanted to be there.
The portraits nearest the stair gave us a long, slow look before settling their gaze back on the other side of the corridor.
On the seventh floor a door shimmered into view. It rippled at the edges and then solidified. It opened the instant Hermione touched the handle.
The floor inside had a thick spread of cushions that adjusted to weight and shape; some had tiny sigils on the underside that meant anyone collapsing on them would be gently tipped upright after a few minutes. The rugs absorbed sound, so the music boomed, but the outer corridor stayed quieter. Strings of small glass lamps moved slightly with the bass, and the low tables were set with wooden flagons and bowls that did not break when knocked over. Someone had set enchantments on the windows so the glass dimmed and the light inside stayed low.
Students from every House filled the room. A couple of them had enchanted paper lanterns that blew smoke when you tapped them; they left a faint scent of cinnamon in the air. People shouted, danced and knocked over drinks. A few students waved when they saw me; most only glanced and looked away.
Crowds had never felt safe to me. They meant not knowing where the next curse might come from. The air in the room grew hotter and thicker, and my stomach tightened. I had expected something quiet, not this. I almost turned back. I could have said I had an essay or a headache. Pride kept me there. I owed Hermione at least an apology if I left.
The others disappeared into the noise at once. Seamus and Dean went straight for the drinks, while Parvati and Lavender vanished into the crowd. Hermione barely had time to glance back before someone caught her arm, laughing, and dragged her towards the dance floor.
A battered gramophone in the corner was playing music of the Weird Sisters; it rattled and occasionally spat harmless sparks.
Food was set out on wooden boards. Someone had used anti-break charms on the bowls so that plates clinked but did not shatter. There were platters of meat pies, trays of sugar-dusted pastries and bowls of spiced nuts. A boy from Hufflepuff had brought a crate of bottled drinks that bubbled and hissed.
The drinks table had a little sign: Try the Glumbumble Fizz; charmed for a light fizz. A few students had put warning sigils on the underside of the tablecloths so anyone setting a mug down would leave a faint dust mark on the rim if they had used a particular refill charm. It was an amateur precaution. The favoured refill charm around here left a thin crescent of smudge on the glass if the caster had not wiped their gloves. I noticed one flagon with a pale green smear on the rim as someone passed it and thought nothing of it at first.
There were small rules too. Whoever had set the Room for a party had also asked for a "safe circle", a portion of floor at the back where underclass students could sit out without being crowded. That circle had a narrow ward that would make sure anyone collapsing in it was eased gently onto a cushion. It did not stop someone slipping something into a drink. It simply kept the unconscious upright until someone checked them.
The room blurred with movement. People were doing simple party things. Some were dancing in a badly taught line, which made everyone laugh. Others sat in circles and passed around a wooden box with folded slips of parchment inside. When someone unfolded a slip, they read a dare or a question. The dares were mostly harmless: sing a verse from a Muggle pop song, kiss the nearest person on the cheek, and tell a secret about your first broom lesson. A few of the questions were blunt and made people blush. They played it like a game of risk and fun. A couple of students were running a quieter table where they swapped small charms and taught simple polishing spells to anyone who wanted to learn. The mood changed as you moved from group to group.
Groups danced in tight clusters, girls shrieked with laughter, and students sprawled across cushions in varying stages of drunkenness. Bottles clinked nearby. Smoke curled lazily along the ceiling. In the far corner, a few couples were tangled together, lost to everything else.
I stood for a while and watched everything around me. It should have been normal and harmless. It should have been a place to feel a little ordinary for an hour, but I did not belong here. I did not know how to join in.
Remus's voice echoed in my head, calm but heavy. Keep it short. Don't make a habit of being careless.
Merlin, he would lose it if he saw this. I could already picture the furrowed brow, the weary sigh, and the quiet remark I'd never manage to forget.
Still, part of me didn't want to be the awkward one standing on the edge. I was seventeen. This was what people my age were supposed to do.
Just stay long enough to be polite, I told myself. Then go.
Lavender and Parvati were in the middle of a rowdy conversation about dress robes. Lavender kept flicking her wand to smooth her hair back in a way that made the ends shine unnaturally. Seamus and Dean were already balancing flagons, laughing and arguing about who could make the loudest noise with a cork.
Hermione was talking animatedly with Lavender Brown, her hands cutting through the air as she spoke. For a moment I felt a tightness in my chest I could not name. She had not meant to leave me, but I stood at the edge and did not belong.
"It's got a counter-ward that muffles broomstick noise but doesn't block the spell they put on the noticeboard," I heard Hermione say when I edged closer to her.
Lavender caught sight of me and grinned, a glint in her eyes that suggested she'd found something amusing, though I couldn't think what.
"I can't stay long," I called once I was near enough Hermione, raising my voice over the pulsing music. "I told Remus I'd be in Hogsmeade, so I don't want to push my luck."
Lavender laughed, tossing her hair back. "Professor Lupin isn't here, is he?" she shouted, her grin bright but not warm. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him. Besides, every seventh year needs a proper back-to-school celebration."
Before I could reply, Lavender pressed a glass into my hand. "Just a quick one," she shouted.
The liquid was a thick amber. I raised an eyebrow and shouted, "What is this?" Lavender winked and moved off.
I took a small sip out of politeness. It tasted sickly sweet with a chemical edge. It was not Firewhisky. I grimaced and put the glass down on a nearby table. I wiped my mouth with my sleeve.
Hermione had drifted back to the centre of the dance floor, caught in a blur of seventh-years. Her hair whipped around her as she laughed, spinning under the shifting lights, her face flushed with colour. She looked free. Happy.
Then she vanished. The crowd surged, bodies pressing from every side, and she disappeared among them.
Near the back a small knot of Slytherins stood with folded arms and tidy robes. They watched more than joined in. One of them kept glancing at the door as if checking the exits. I made a note of that at once. Small, watchful movements are the sort of detail you remember later if something goes wrong.
I tried to work my way out, pushing through gaps that closed as soon as they opened. Each step forward vanished beneath the press of people. The crowd closed around me and there was no room to get past.
The air thickened with perfume, smoke, sweat, and alcohol. My head throbbed, the music vibrating through my skull. It wasn't only the noise. My hearing had gone strange, the sound bending and echoing inside my head instead of around me.
I glanced down. The glass I'd set down fifteen seconds ago was full again. A student's sleeve had brushed it; someone must have refilled it while I was distracted, though I was certain I'd left it full on the table a moment ago.
A small ripple crossed the surface as if someone had stirred it. I had not seen anyone near the table. I stared at it, uneasy.
I lifted the glass again and took a small drink. It had a metallic tang this time. I felt it hit the back of my throat, and my stomach turned. I started to cough. My vision blurred at the edges and then darkened in pulses with every heartbeat. My knees went weak. My chest tightened, and my breathing became shallow.
I pressed a hand to my forehead. It came away damp with sweat.
Someone slammed into my back, sending me stumbling into a group of students.
Their faces swam before me, out of focus.
At first, I thought they were just curious, the way people sometimes were.
But this was different.
Their eyes weren't curious or kind. They were sharp. Cold. Amused.
One of them, a Slytherin maybe, said something to the others, too fast to catch. The words reached me warped, as if from underwater. They were laughing. All of them. Not kindly.
I tried to speak. Tried to move. My legs were heavy as lead. I managed a step, but too slow.
Someone shoved me from behind. A hand grabbed my shoulder. Before I could turn, another hand pressed a glass to my lips. "Come on, Potter," a voice said. "Don't be a bore." The rim hit my mouth, and something thick slid down my throat.
It was foul—bitter, chemical, thick. It burned my tongue and caught in my throat. My body reacted before my mind did. I spat some out, but it was too late. Enough had gone down.
My vision pulsed.
Not dimmed; pulsed, black blooming at the edges with every heartbeat. The floor shifted, or maybe I did. My chest tightened. Breathing grew uneven, as if my lungs had forgotten how.
Cold fear slid through me. I knew how to tell drink from danger; Remus had made sure of it. This wasn't drink. This was wrong. Dangerous.
My heart raced, unsteady, stuttering against my ribs. Heat surged under my skin.
And through the haze, my head cleared enough for one thought: this was poison. Not a hex. Not drink. Poison. I had trained to spot the signs. This was them.
Behind me, through the crush of bodies and pounding music, someone close by laughed and spat, "That will teach you." The words sounded cruel, but I could not tell if they were aimed at me.
The voice was too sure. Either someone had slipped the memory charm, or whispers about me had started to spread in places they shouldn't.
Someone near the group had a smear of a pale green powder on their cuff. I could not tell if I had imagined it. My stomach turned.
The thought flickered and slipped away before I could catch it.
Then, through the chaos, another hand caught mine. Smaller. Steady. Not demanding or rough, only firm and warm. It began to guide me away. I couldn't see who it was at first; my vision still refused to focus. My legs gave way, and I nearly went down, but the grip tightened. An arm came round my back, holding me up. I let it take my weight. There wasn't much else I could do.
The torches cast hard pools of light the moment the door closed. The corridor air was cool compared to the heat in the room, and it made me shiver.
A portrait watched us. It showed an old woman in a grey dress whose eyes followed everyone. Her mouth opened and closed once and she stepped free from the frame. She crossed the corridor, slipped into the frame of the portrait that faced the Head of House corridor and, without naming anyone, said in a low voice, "A pupil is ill at the Room of Requirement. Send a healer at once." She hurried back and resumed her place.
Her movement would reach somebody who could act. I felt the action like a small relief under my skin.
Whoever was holding me steered me to a stone bench along the wall and eased me down carefully, as if I were something fragile.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, head hanging low. Sweat ran down my neck, my fringe plastered to my forehead, my shirt sticking to my back. Each breath came shallow and strained. I clenched my teeth, fighting the urge to be sick.
"Harry."
The voice came softly. I blinked, slow and clumsy, and lifted my head.
The face in front of me blurred, then cleared.
Ginny knelt in front of me, hair tied back, sleeves rolled up. She studied my face exactly as if she were checking a wound. "The drink," I croaked.
She did not answer immediately. Her hand rested on my knee to steady me. "It wasn't Firewhisky," she said at last. "It smells sharp. That's not normal alcohol."
I gave a weak nod and instantly regretted it. The corridor tilted, and I pitched forward, my hands flying out to stop myself from sliding off the bench. The motion made everything worse; my stomach lurched, the cold sank deeper into my skin, and a dull ache spread through my limbs.
Ginny caught me before I fell. Her hands gripped my shoulders, firm and steady. "Alright," she murmured. "I've got you."
"I'll be fine in a minute," I said, though I didn't believe it. My fingertips were numb, and my teeth had started to chatter uncontrollably.
"No, you won't," Ginny said sharply. "You're shaking, you're as white as Nearly Headless Nick, and you're drenched in sweat. This isn't drunkenness, Harry. Something's wrong. You need the Hospital Wing."
I didn't have the strength to argue. I couldn't even manage a joke. I just sat there, focusing on breathing.
Footsteps echoed behind us, and a second voice called out, breathless and unsure.
"Harry?"
Hermione.
She came into view, flushed, with hair falling loose around her face. She looked dazed, as if the noise of the party was still clinging to her.
Ginny rose, stepping between us before I realised what she meant to do.
"What did you give him?" Ginny asked sharply.
Hermione blinked. "What? It looked like a Glumbumble Fizz. Someone was mixing drinks at the back. I checked a couple for warming and dilution charms. I thought they were fine. Why?"
"You did not notice he was unwell?" Ginny snapped.
"I did," Hermione said quickly. "I just didn't realise—" Her voice broke, and she looked suddenly sick with guilt.
"You didn't realise," Ginny cut in, eyes bright with anger. "He needs a healer. I'm taking him to the Hospital Wing."
"I'll get Professor McGonagall," Hermione said.
I pushed myself upright, clinging to the bench. "Remus," I muttered. "Take me to Remus."
Ginny hesitated, then set my arm over her shoulder. "If he says Pomfrey, we go," she said. "No argument."
She lifted me with more strength than I'd expected. I tried not to lean on her too much, but it was useless. My legs trembled. My knees buckled more than once. Ginny's grip stayed firm, her stride steady.
I couldn't look back at Hermione.
We moved along the corridor. Torches passed in a line. My ears rang, and the sounds were distorted. My arms felt heavy. I could not say how long it took.
Then I heard a voice. Faint at first, then closer, sharper, worried.
"Harry?"
Remus was there when Ginny set me down on a sofa. He crouched beside me, cool hand on my forehead, fingers checking my pulse.
"He was at a party," Ginny said quickly. "Room of Requirement. He drank something. He's sweating, shaking, barely coherent. I think it was spiked."
There was a pause.
Remus spoke again, his voice lower now.
"Thank you for bringing him to me. I'll take it from here," he said, in that voice that made calm sound like a command.
It was the voice he used when things were bad and he didn't want me to know how bad. His eyes flicked once to mine—calm on the surface, but the fear beneath it was unmistakable.
Ginny hesitated at the doorway. For a moment, I thought she might stay. But she turned instead.
"Tell Harry I hope he feels better soon," she said quietly.
Then she was gone. The door clicked shut behind her.
Remus knelt beside me. His hand was cool against my forehead, brushing my hair aside. He smelled my breath, his jaw tightened, and he tapped his fingers along my wrist to check pulse strength.
I tried to speak, but no words came. My head fell back against the cushions.
Remus murmured the counter-spell. Heat moved through me where the charm touched; it would slow the poison and buy time, but a proper healer would be needed to finish the job. He did not show panic. Then he stood and went to the fireplace and spoke into the Floo. I caught fragments of words and names or thought I did; my head was too muddled to be sure. I could not tell whether he had asked for a healer, someone from the Order, or both.
The crackle of the fire dulled to a distant hum, and everything slipped into darkness.
I woke some hours later in Remus's bedroom. The curtains were drawn. A narrow strip of pale light showed around the edges. I could not tell if it was morning or afternoon. The room was quiet.
My head felt thick and heavy. Turning produced a wave of nausea. My tongue was dry. Every breath scraped my throat. My limbs were slow to move, heavy as if sleep still clung to them.
Underneath the weakness there was a steady heat: the antidote charm Remus used. It burned where it worked and left my skin prickling. The charm had not healed me. It had slowed the poison and forced part of it out. I did not feel right. My muscles were weak, and my chest felt hollow; everything felt washed out.
I stayed still, staring at the ceiling while the rafters swam in and out of focus, and forced myself to remember the afternoon step by step. I could still taste the metallic edge in the back of my throat and smell the sickly sweet scent in my clothes. My shirt clung to my back. The pillow under my cheek had the faint perfume the party used—heavy and floral. My pulse kept a slow, wrong beat even when I lay still.
There had been loud music, people shouting and laughing. Someone had shoved a drink into my hand. I remember my vision going fuzzy. I remember trying to speak and my mouth failing. Then panic, dizziness, sweat, and hands that would not obey. Then a voice that belonged to Remus and then another voice and a hand. Ginny. She had been there, and she had taken me out of the room.
I groaned and rolled onto my side, dragging the scratchy blanket over my head, hiding from the memory as if that might erase it.
Of all the people in the entire bloody castle, why did it have to be her?
I could see her too clearly. Hair tied back, face pale, sleeves pushed up, eyes sharp with worry. She had not hesitated. She knew something was wrong before I did. She grabbed my arm, led me out, and held me up. She was there. And I—
I must have looked useless. Slumped and sweating, hardly the seventeen-year-old I wanted people to believe I was. Had I tried to thank her? I could not remember. I felt cold shame. I pressed my face harder into the pillow.
I could still hear her voice, firm and clipped, telling Hermione no, insisting she would be the one to get me to the Infirmary. She did not ask. She told. And Hermione, Hermione, did not even argue.
Why?
Why had Ginny stood in front of me like that?
Why had she cared?
Or was it pity? The thought turned my stomach.
I did not want pity. Especially not hers.
The memory of her hand, warm and sure around mine, surfaced uninvited. I could still feel it and still remember how steady she was while I could barely tell which way was up.
The shame was not new; it only had a new name now: carelessness.
I clenched my jaw.
It should not have been her. Being saved meant being seen, and that was the one thing I couldn't afford.
And Remus.
I swallowed hard. That memory was clearer than the rest. His face. The way he looked at me was not furious, not even disappointed exactly, but something quieter. Something that felt worse.
He had not said much. His silence said everything.
He thanked Ginny for bringing me. Calmly. Gently. Then she left.
And I, what did I do? I slumped there like a dead weight on the sofa, as if I were eleven again, not seventeen. Hardly the person Remus should rely on.
I shut my eyes tight.
I had only been back a week. A week. And already I had proved every one of Remus's worries right. I could not even get through a bloody social without ending up poisoned and half conscious on the floor. What message did that send?
Oh yes, the Boy Who Lived, I thought bitterly. Just don't hand him a drink.
I curled tighter under the blanket, my face burning.
I should have known something was off. I did know. The drink tasted wrong, too sweet, with a bite underneath that was not normal. It smelt off, metallic. But I drank it anyway. Why?
Because someone handed it to me and smiled?
Because I did not want to seem awkward or paranoid?
Because I was too bloody proud to say no, thanks?
Pathetic.
Utterly, completely pathetic.
Remus saw all of it, the weakness and the lapse.
I stared up at the ceiling until the lines blurred again, my chest tight.
If it had been a mistake, I could live with that. If it had been deliberate, someone at Hogwarts knew enough about me to try this. The war had not stayed outside the walls. It had come in. It had found me.