Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ The Space In-Between ❯ Light on the Floorboards ( Chapter 2 )

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I woke to the brightness on the floorboards. It was not the usual ache in my chest or the tight knot behind my ribs. It was simply soft and golden, sliding through the tall windows without glare in broad bands that caught dust motes in the air. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I did not want to move. No plan, no urgency, just light.

I did not trust it yet.

Outside, the world had already started turning. I could hear it faintly: someone dragging a deckchair across a patio, tyres crunching on gravel, and a faint laugh from a garden two houses away.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my bare feet on the wooden floor, cool beneath my skin. I looked at my hands and flexed them, trying to decide my plan for the day. They did not help.

The room appeared softer in daylight, steadier too. The Quidditch posters on the far wall lifted at the corners in the breeze. Viktor Krum was mid-stretch, his broom angled with a calm face. I envied him. That kind of freedom—playing for yourself and no one else—felt impossible.

My owl shifted on her perch in the corner, with puffed feathers, as though she had been awake for hours and did not appreciate my slow start. She gave a low, non-urgent hoot. A small reminder that time had not stopped, even if I wished it would, just for one morning.

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, my tone rough. I had not meant to speak. The quiet felt close, so I kept my voice low.

I crouched beside the trunk at the foot of my bed, still half packed. T-shirts lay crumpled, books stacked unevenly, curled scraps of parchment and a few empty Chocolate Frog wrappers. The scattered things looked like proof of months spent moving without stopping.

I did not bother to choose. I grabbed the nearest clean enough shirt and pulled it on. It did not matter. Not today.

The stairs creaked beneath me as I went down, barefoot and quiet. It was not a harsh noise or a warning. It was the sound of old wood under my feet.

And then the aroma reached me.

Toast with melting butter. A hint of spice, cinnamon or cloves. Strong, earthy tea, the way Remus always brewed it. The smell was pungent as I arrived at the bottom step.

I did not speak straightaway. I remained in the doorway and let it settle.

He stood by the hob with his sleeves rolled, his wand stirring the kettle as it hovered over a blue flame. The scent of rosemary had joined the others. He looked at ease, though there was a softness to his shoulders, a stillness I rarely saw.

His movements were unhurried for once.

I did not want to interrupt. It felt wrong to speak. I watched, sunlight stretched across the floor at my feet.

“Good afternoon, Harry,” Remus announced without turning. There was a small smile in his voice, the kind that told me he was aware of how long I had been awake, lying there and thinking instead of sleeping.

I gave a short laugh. “It’s barely morning,” I said, even though we both knew mornings meant little to us anymore.

He turned slightly, with one eyebrow lifting. “It’s nearly midday,” he stated, as if announcing a small mercy.

I shrugged, but the corner of my mouth twitched. He handed me a mug with the same easy, practised movement I remembered from every place we had stayed. It looked ordinary enough to be any quiet morning, not a temporary pause.

The tea was perfect—slightly sweet, with a trace of chamomile under the stronger herbs. He had judged the strength in the way I prefer.

He had always been like that since the first safe house, where the curtains were constantly closed, and I was too young to understand.

We drank while the world outside carried on without us. I could hear birdsong, the soft crackle of the fire, and somewhere beyond the trees, a faint tune playing from a wireless.

“Toast?” Remus asked, voice casual. “Or are we feeling extravagant? Scrambled eggs?”

“Eggs,” I said too quickly. It was not about being lavish. It was about being questioned.

I leaned against the counter, hip pressed into the warm wood, and looked out of the window. Outside, the village continued as if nothing had ever gone wrong, as if no one had vanished in the night or been hunted for their name. Gardens showed strong colour. A neighbour knelt among hers, trimming a hedge. A dog wandered past the post box, tail wagging. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang, perhaps from a bakery, perhaps from a clock tower. I did not know. But it was ordinary.

The mug warmed my hands. Steam rose to my face. The window latch clicked in the breeze. Last night’s chill clung to the flagstones by the door. The kitchen clock read eleven twenty; its second hand moved on with a soft tick.

Plain, fully normal. None of them knew who we were, or what we had seen, or what we carried. To them, we were just another pair of reserved faces passing through, who kept to the edge of the lane.

We cooked in silence for a short while. The sounds from the hob filled the room: the faint pop and sizzle of oil and the scrape of a spoon against ceramic. It should have felt empty, but it did not. The cottage was silent, and the air was still.

Remus spoke first. He noticed everything.

“You’re quiet today,” he breathed, the way he always did.

I hesitated and traced the chipped rim of a mug by the sink. I did not want to lie, but I did not want to explain.

“It’s nothing,” I said, and winced as the words left my mouth. I did not believe them, and neither did he. That made it worse.

Before I could stop myself, I added, “Just a bad dream.”

He paused and tilted his head as though listening, shifting his shoulders. He did not rush to speak or fill the gap. Slowly, he turned towards me.

“Harry,” he said quietly, “that’s not nothing.”

He stepped closer and lifted my chin with one hand, not roughly but with a steady care, which caused my chest to tighten. Kindness still caught me off guard, and I wasn’t certain where to put it.

His touch steadied me. Remus did not look at a legend or a story. He glanced at me—scarred, tired, and persevering. Somehow that made it worse, because it rendered the moment solid.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, brushing his thumb beneath my jaw before he let go. “I know it’s difficult.”

I looked at him. The lines on his face were deeper than I remembered, and the skin under his eyes showed the colour of little sleep.

He turned back to the hob and stirred the eggs.

“We’re only here for a while,” he said, voice barely louder than the breeze through the open window. “You know that.”

I nodded and felt my stomach twist.

Of course I knew. We didn’t linger, and we never could. Regardless of how solid the walls were and how many mornings passed in the absence of alarms or whispers, the stay was temporary. Another safe house. Another quick pause.

“I just…” I began, but the rest stayed in my throat.

I wanted to stop running. I wished to breathe without looking back and to believe this could be real.

Instead, I dipped my head in a small nod. I hoped it spoke what I could not voice.

Remus saw it at once. He always did.

“There’s no need to rush,” he said after a moment, softer now. “We’ll talk later.” He tapped the rim of my empty mug, then set it by the sink.

Later. The word sat between us. It was not a promise but enough to keep the day from collapsing.

I held on to that.

Sometimes it felt like that was what I did most days.

Living with Remus had started as a precaution, a strategic step. Dumbledore came up with the idea: another safe house for a young man the world had forgotten, a young man who shouldn’t exist. It was straightforward. He took me in because he cared, because no one else thought to, and because he understood what it meant to be hunted for something you could not change.

Knowing that did not make it easier.

He said it was for my safety, and maybe it was. Each day I stayed, and every night, I felt guilty. It appeared I was taking from a man who had already lost too much.

There was another truth I could not wash away. The full moon was weeks off, but its date sat in both our heads because of him; it meant extra watchfulness for both of us. It showed in Remus’s slight winces, in the stiffness of his shoulders and the way he started at sudden noises. I saw it, and I did not like how small it made me feel.

He rubbed his forearm once and stopped when he noticed me watching.

I knew he would carry the pain without asking for help. I did the same.

Maybe that is why we kept a steady distance in the house, not quite family and not quite strangers, two tired people trying not to fail in front of each other.

Morning light came through the curtains and fell across Remus’s face. It drew shadows beneath his cheekbones and showed the tiredness there. His shirt hung loose and was thin from years of washing, faded from blue to a colour that was hard to name. His trousers sagged a little at the waist and relied on the belt more than the fit. People didn’t see a protector when they looked at him.

He kept his back straight and his chin level. He did not posture. It came from extensive work in the hours after battles ended, when the house had gone quiet again.

I watched without speaking. His hands moved slowly and with care as he turned the eggs in the pan. The movement was sure from long practice after many setbacks.

I wondered, not for the first time, how someone so tired could be the one to keep me safe. How could he carry our shared memories when his own were heavy enough?

I looked away, heat and guilt moving up my neck. I saw the mirror above the sink; the glass was cracked straight through, and no one had mended it. My reflection stared back: pale, thin, with hair sticking out in every direction. My glasses sat crooked on my nose, useless as ever.

And the eyes. It’s always the eyes.

Remus said they were my mother’s. He thought it would comfort me. All I saw in them was a burden. Expectation. A history I had not chosen.

He turned from the hob and set a plate in front of me: scrambled eggs, neat and steaming. He rinsed his own at the sink, every movement steady and deliberate.

I picked up a fork. The dish was warm to my fingers, and steam rose into my face. The omelette tasted soft and salty, with butter at the edge. I chewed, swallowed, and felt the food settle. I sipped tea and set the mug down; the handle was hot, then bearable.

Remus crossed to the window seat with a slow breath and sat down, the old bench creaking under him. With a flick of his wand, the Daily Prophet drifted across the room and unfolded in his lap. He did not open it quickly. He held the page and checked each line with care.

“What’s new?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. It was never good.

He did not respond at once. He tilted the paper so I could see.

The headline did not matter. The photograph stated enough.

Smoke was rising and thinning in the moving picture. A figure crossed a corner and vanished. A shard of glass flashed in the light before fumes swallowed it.

“When did that come in?” I asked.

“This morning’s edition,” he said. “Two attacks today. One near a market, one on a lane.”

Ash and ruin filled the frame; walls had collapsed inward. Black smoke rose from what had been a home or a Muggle cafe. It was hard to tell. Above it in the sky hung the Dark Mark.

Green. Twisting. Cruel.

I stared until the image blurred, but I did not look away.

“Muggles live in fear now,” Remus said at last, his voice low and tired. “Even in the quietest villages. There’s nowhere safe anymore.”

Guilt came fast. I looked around the kitchen; the scent of rosemary and toast still hung in the air, the sun was warm on my skin, and the floorboards were smooth beneath my feet. All of it felt wrong.

How could we have peace, a sliver, when others had none?

“What can we do for them?” I asked quietly, almost to myself. “While we sit here, safe and hidden, they’re out there dying.”

Remus turned his head slowly. His eyes were unreadable and guarded. Not unkind, but distant. He kept something back from me.

“There’s a plan for you,” he said at last. “Dumbledore has organised things. You will understand in time.”

He arranged for me to be placed where I could train and remain under protective wards.

They were supposed to help. They did not.

I did not want an arrangement. Prophecy or fixed endings weren’t what I wanted. I longed for freedom, choice, and the right to be ordinary. I hoped to decide for myself who I would be, not who the world thought I should become.

But that had never been mine, had it?

I looked back at the paper, at the smoke and green light, and the fear returned, slow and familiar.

I did not feel safe now.

And I was not sure I could save anyone.

“They’re scared,” I murmured. “All of them. And all we do is sit here. Just watching.”

For a long moment, Remus was silent. He folded the newspaper with deliberate care, pressed the crease flat, and set it aside. His face gave nothing away, blank and still, but when he spoke, his voice was gentler than I expected.

“Fear can stop people,” he said. “Cause them to freeze. But it also has the ability to push them to do things they never thought they could. You witnessed it, and you lived through it.”

I swallowed hard. The lump in my throat came on fast and made little sense.

“And you’ve done more than act, Harry,” he stated softly. “You’ve given me something to believe in. You’ve given me hope.”

Hope. The word hurt, and a dozen faces rose in my head: people who had followed me, who had died because of me.

Despite that, I was here.

That was what made it hard to breathe some days.

“I feel I’m a mistake,” I whispered. “A name in a story I don’t know how to finish.”

Remus turned fully then, watching me with his quiet focus. Not judging. Not pitying. Just seeing. Seeing too much.

“There has to be something we can do,” I said again, my tone rising. The words came out quickly and roughly. “Anything. I cannot possibly sit here. I can’t wait. Not while people are… while they’re…”

My voice cracked. I did not care.

He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. It sat faintly at the corners of his mouth.

“Perhaps, Harry,” Remus said softly. “But the change begins here.”

He tapped his chest with two fingers.

“Transforming the world starts with learning to transform yourself.”

Outside, wind moved through the trees. Bare branches scraped the windowpane and rattled once.

“Master your craft,” he went on, his tone quiet but steady. “Not just the incantations. That’s the simple part. Learn restraint. Precision. Understand how to lead, not merely react. Become the wizard who is capable of carrying what is coming and enduring it.”

I hesitated. My throat tightened.

“Do you really think I can?” I asked. I hated how small my voice sounded.

“Yes,” he said, without a pause. No hesitation. No doubt.

“But not all at once,” he added gently. “Today, practise the charm I showed you. Tomorrow, we will talk about what comes next. Put one foot in front of the other, Harry.”

There was something in his tone—firm and certain—that steadied me. Not away from the war or the fear, but back to something solid.

One footfall.

One breath.

One spell.

I nodded and swallowed. The tightness in my chest eased slightly.

Outside, the wind still whipped through the trees.

But inside the cottage, the warmth held.

The village kept a slow, deliberate pace. Ottery St Catchpole ran on long-set habits. Stone cottages huddled close together, with ivy climbing their chimneys. Smoke rose from hearths. Mornings brought birdsong and the smell of jasmine or damp earth, depending on the conditions.

People waved as you passed. They exchanged pleasantries, asking about the weather, the price of eggs, and whether the baker’s daughter had married the smith’s apprentice. Milk bottles sat on doorsteps. Dogs dozed in patches of sun and did not mind the comings and goings.

Even here, I could feel a tension in the quiet. Sidelong glances. Questions that stopped at polite smiles. They did not know who we were, but they knew we were not locals. They were aware we did not belong.

A boy who looked too closely at everything.

A man with scars on his face and dark circles under his eyes.

We were not guests or cousins come to visit.

We wore borrowed clothes and stayed on the edge of their streets.

Sometimes, when the wind came in from the east, I heard it: the faint crack of Apparition, the harsh laughter of Death Eaters through the trees, and distant shouting from somewhere else. The noises felt far, but they were warnings; not everyone who remembered me kept their distance.

I wanted to believe it could be ours. That quiet could last longer than a moment.

Remus’s voice cut into my thoughts.

“Do you agree, Harry?”

I blinked. “Sorry, what?”

He was watching me, not with frustration, but with the steady weariness that had become part of him. He looked like someone who had learned that most answers come not from books or spells, but from perseverance.

“We were speaking about Hogwarts,” he replied evenly. “About keeping a low profile.”

Right. The wizarding school.

It felt wrong. I could not picture myself in those corridors, following House routines and timetables, acting as if I were another student.

But Dumbledore had arranged it. He mentioned it would keep us safe for now. He said there were things I needed to learn. And Remus had to stay traceable enough for the school to find him. I was still the one no one remembered.

Hogwarts would protect us, but it would confine me. Stone walls, rules, and corridors where footsteps echoed.

He cleared his throat.

“You and I are going to be there in different capacities, student and staff. That gives access, but it brings scrutiny. The castle is full of secrets, Harry. You will need to keep your eyes open.”

I nodded slowly. My shoulders tightened.

“Sounds absolutely marvellous,” I muttered, and a reckless part of me meant it.

Even now, the thought of going to Hogwarts, despite everything, made me feel slightly better.

Remus caught it. Of course, he did.

“Enthusiasm can be useful,” he said wryly. “But dangerous, too. Attention brings questions. Questions you may not be ready, or safe enough, to answer.”

I exhaled and rubbed the back of my neck.

“Alright. I will keep my head down.”

“Self-control,” he corrected gently. “Not silence. Not hiding. Just awareness.”

I understood he was right. He always was, curse him.

That did not make it easy.

“It is simply harder for me than it is for you,” I mumbled, not meeting his eyes. “You always knew how to disappear into a room. I’m never going to have that once I use my real name.”

For a moment, he did not answer. Then he faced me fully, and when he spoke, his voice was low and steady.

“It is not about luxury, Harry,” he said. “Or ease. It is about necessity. Not that it matters; no one at Hogwarts will recognise it. Dumbledore’s seen to that.”

He paused.

“Sometimes the safest move is to draw less notice than those who are hunting you,” he added. “Not forever. Just long enough to outlast them.”

His words took time to settle. I did not respond. I stood still and included it with the rest.

There was a softness in Remus’s eyes that caught me off guard. Not comfort. Not kindness. Quieter than that. Knowing. He held back, and he had lost people.

“You have accomplished hard things before, Harry,” he said, voice low and measured. “Harder than this. And you will do more because you must. But do not forget there is strength in patience, too. In understanding when to hold back.”

I opened my mouth to utter something sharp. I wanted to say I was done with waiting, weary of staying away while attacks carried on. Tired of watching others fight and fall while I stayed behind curtains and spells and plans I did not understand.

But then I saw the slight pull at his mouth, the new lines above his brows, and the worry he had not quite hidden.

The words did not come.

“If anyone can do it,” he said simply. That was all.

No speech. No fuss. Just quiet certainty.

I turned back to the window. The village lay under the morning sun, rooftops in a soft, pale glow that comes only after dawn. Light came through the clouds in clear bands.

For a single silent moment, everything held still.

“One breath at a time,” I told myself. “One day at a time.”

I would blend in, keep my head down, and do whatever was necessary, even if I no longer knew who I was. Regardless if every part of me wanted to be anybody else entirely. Someone unburdened. Unmarked.

Remus moved through life at a set pace: measured and steady. His composure did not come easily. He had learnt it and practised it. It was survival, sharpened by years with a wand in hand. Watching him was seeing a person who had memorised rules and kept them without fail.

And me?

I was still going line by line.

He slipped into cover with the ease of habit. He knew how to vanish in a room and how to stand while avoiding attention.

It annoyed me, that calm.

While I struggled under alternative names and borrowed laughter, he settled. He made it look easy, this life on the run. But I wasn’t looking for simple. I did not want practised smiles or half-truths spoken with clenched teeth. I wanted contact. Something plain and real.

A laugh not pushed down by fear.

A touch that did not flinch.

A story told in the open without glancing over our shoulders.

Sometimes, on long walks through Muggle parks, or sitting across from each other in small cafes that smelt of coffee and dust, I let myself pretend. I would sit there, fingers round a mug, and think, “Maybe this is what being normal feels like.”

Just a boy with a scar and a headache.

No prophecy. No war.

But thinking in that manner brought risk. The more I reached for it, the closer danger followed.

And always, Remus noticed.

He would give me a look, a silent warning, and then we would leave. No argument. No explanation.

Another door shut behind us.

A different place left in the past.

This time, he said, was not the same.

But Hogwarts did not feel new.

The thought of those halls and staircases, those long rooms with echoes, did not calm me.

It made my chest tight.

Even as Remus spoke of protection and rules, something in me drew back.

I did not believe in safety.

Not really.

A school full of sharp-eyed students and portraits that never slept wasn’t a refuge. Portrait eyes follow movement. I have seen them watch.

It did not sound safe.

Still, his voice, calm and certain, kept me steady.

“Hogwarts is the safest place for you,” he said. “The headmaster has protections you cannot yet imagine. If you stay within its walls, you will not have to keep running.”

He meant wards, binding charms and layers of protection that hold within the castle.

I wanted to believe him. I did.

“Time to get changed,” he told me.

I nodded.

I went upstairs and opened the trunk at the foot of my bed. The hinges squeaked the same way they always had. Familiar.

Inside, my robes waited, folded and neat.

I put them on. The sleeves were too short. I let one set hang loose and tried a second robe. The size was the same. I had grown taller and leaner, with more angles than soft lines. The fabric sat wrong on me, as if cut for another build.

Or perhaps it was not the attire that no longer fit.

It’s possible I was the one who had changed.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

The boy looking back was not quite the person I remembered.

There was something in the eyes I had not seen there before.

A wariness.

A weight.

Maybe that is what war does to you.

Not all at once, but in small steps.

Until one day you cannot recall what it is to be unafraid.

I smoothed the top of my robes and turned from the mirror.

It was time to go.

Even though part of me still was not sure where I was going back to.

Downstairs, Remus was already waiting.

His attire was crisp and dark, cuffs buttoned, and collar pressed.

The signs of wear were clear in the slight front set of his shoulders and the grey in his hair.

His eyes were watchful and tired and had not changed.

He stepped forward without a word and straightened my tie with hands steadier than mine.

His fingers moved deftly, practised, as if he had done this before for someone else.

In the hall mirror beside us, I glimpsed myself.

The Hogwarts crest sat bright against black robes.

A hat perched awkwardly on hair that stuck up from attending classes.

It appeared wrong to me.

I did not look similar to myself.

I looked like a boy trying to pass as another person in school colours.

“There,” Remus said at last with a faint huff of amusement. “From wandering nomad to certified schoolboy.”

I flinched, just slightly, at the words.

Wandering nomad. The phrase landed harder than it should have. Not because it was untrue, but because of how casually he spoke it. As if it were a label. I could not tell whether he meant it kindly or if it was simply a fact that no longer hurt him to say. Either way, it pressed on my chest.

“I’m not sure about this,” I whispered, my voice low and uneven. “What if I am not ready?”

He paused, the humour fading. Then he stepped closer, close enough for me to see the slight tremble in his jaw and the quiet strain at the corner of his mouth.

“You are,” he said gently. “Harry, I have watched you. I have seen every step, every choice, every burden. You are more resilient than what you give yourself credit for. And ready or not, this is the next phase. You are going to accomplish wonderful achievements.”

He meant it as encouragement, but it did not comfort me.

People said lines similar to that to me often, and I never knew how to answer. It felt less like a compliment and more like an order. A prophecy handed down.

“I don’t wish to be someone who is supposed to do great things,” I muttered. “I just want to feel like I fit in somewhere.”

Remus glanced at me, steady, asking nothing.

“You belong,” he stated. “And you will not be staying out of sight anymore, Harry.”

My throat tightened. I looked away.

“What if something goes wrong?” I asked, quieter now. “What if I can’t hold it together in there? What if I bring danger with me?”

“Then we would face it,” he said at once. “Hogwarts is not only a school; it is where you will have space to be, not just survive.”

His trust of that place was hard to share.

I wanted to believe it.

“But it still feels dangerous,” I admitted. “I am walking into a situation I may not be ready for.”

He set a hand on my shoulder, firm but not heavy. “That is why I am here. And that is why the headmaster is watching. Harry, you aren’t alone this time. You do not have to be. You will be protected.”

“What if Hogwarts is not safe?” I asked.

“Then we shall learn to make it so.”

He meant it kindly. We stepped outside, and the wards gave a faint ripple as they settled. A thought came.

If safety is possible, it can be broken.

We walked down the path toward the lane. My robes brushed my shins, and the air smelled of wet leaves and woodsmoke.

A post owl crossed the sky; a cart rattled. The cart’s iron wheel clicked twice on a cracked flagstone.

My shoes felt tight across the toes.

We reached the gate. The latch snapped once.

The lintel charm gave a short chime from the front path. Remus lifted his wand and, voice low and hard, said, “Stay behind me.”