Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ The Space In-Between ❯ Hands That Steady ( Chapter 4 )

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I woke before first light, my mouth dry and my chest a tight, familiar weight. The dormitory was quiet. Cool air slipped in at the window and lifted the edge of the curtain nearest my bed. I lay still and listened. The boys breathed in slow patterns. Bed ropes creaked now and then. The fire in the grate had burned down to a dull glow and gave off a faint scent of ash.

I swung my legs over the side and set my feet on the boards. The wood felt cold against my skin. I stayed for a moment and watched the curtain move and settle. I got up, pulled on my jumper and robes, and tied my hair back from my eyes with my fingers. My glasses sat on the trunk; I cleaned them on the inside of my sleeve until the lenses cleared.

The common room was nearly empty. Morning light came through the windows in a pale strip and widened across the carpet minute by minute. Red coals remained from the fire, providing heat near the grate. The armchairs were smooth on the arms from years of hands. The space smelled of ash, old wool, polish, and a trace of smoke that clung to the stone.

I took the high-back chair by the window, pulled my knees in a little, and left my shoes unlaced. The light on the floorboards grew and showed dust in the gaps. My stomach rolled. I could not tell whether it wanted food or quiet. For years, staying out of sight had kept me alive. Now my name sat on a list again, and I had a timetable that told me to go where everyone else went. My hands found the edge of my sleeve as if by habit.

Breakfast came to mind. I pictured the Great Hall, benches full, forks against plates, and a few faces turning at the sound of the main doors. I stayed put. The grandfather clock by the fire creaked before it struck, and the echo travelled up the stairwell and faded. I had waited too long.

I took my timetable from the chair arm and stood. The portrait hole opened on the first push. As soon as I stepped into the corridor, a stream of students came past at a steady pace and forced me back half a step. The flagstones were cool through my soles even with shoes on. Most feet wore down the stone. Voices carried along the hallway and bounced off the arches. Robes brushed against my sleeves. Someone on my left mentioned a missing Ministry patrol near Dover. I stared at the stair sign and kept my jaw straight.

A few faces glanced at me and looked away. Some looks were quick, harmless curiosity. A few were the stare that tries to fit you into a story and, finding no cue, shrugged and moved on. I tried to hold Dumbledore’s words in mind, the promise that inside these walls my name meant something again. I stood motionless for a few seconds. My shoulders rose and sat there. My hands went still at my sides. The others proceeded with aim. I had a timetable and a knot in my throat.

I looked at the parchment and found the first line. P7. There was no key on the page for the letters. I swallowed and reached the edge of a thought that said, Leave, take the nearest stairs down, cross the courtyard, and keep going until the noise thinned.

“Are you all right?”

I turned. The voice was level and clear. A girl stood a pace off with a stack of books held to her chest. Her hair was thick and bushy with curls that had not flattened even where it had been brushed. Brown eyes watched me and then my timetable. She saw my half-laced shoes and the way I grasped the parchment. She looked like someone who hated seeing people flounder and could not help herself when she observed.

“I’m new,” I told her while showing the paper. “I don’t know where I should be.”

She took it, scanned once, and raised her eyebrows. “Potions. Professor Snape. You will want your kit. He checks for brass scales, a clean silver knife, glass phials with stoppers, and labels.”

“Where?”

“Dungeons,” she replied. She had already stepped off and tilted her head for me to follow. “P7 is Potions classroom seven, past the old armoury.” She kept her pace. “Come on. We’re in the same class.”

The word dungeons did nothing for my stomach. Her certainty did. I fell in beside her.

“Thanks.”

“I’m Hermione Granger,” she introduced without slowing. “You’re not the only one who gets turned around. I made a map of the castle in first year. It’s colour-coded. If you want a copy, I can make one.”

She had a bright, practical look of someone who makes lists for fun. No one had offered me anything like that in a long time without wanting a favour or a secret. “You made a map?”

“Yes,” she answered, brisk and matter-of-fact. “Some staircases move. Some landings do not connect the way you expect. Writing it down helps.” She looked down at my parchment again. “You will also want quills and paper. Snape checks.”

We reached the bottom of the stairs, and she paused. “Do you have your bag?”

I glanced at my hands. Empty. “No. One moment.”

I ran back up the boys’ stairs. The steps were narrow and uneven. The stone’s edge knocked against the side of my shoe twice. A mix of soap, damp wool, and banked fire smoke filled the dormitory. I went to my trunk, pulled the strap of my satchel tight, checked that my wand sat in its holster along my forearm, and slid the Potions kit into the bag. The brass scales touched the phials and made a light sound. I wrapped it in a folded jumper to stop it and pinned the Gryffindor badge to my robes. I kept the badge cold on my chest as proof that I had walked here under my name and not simply as a refugee in another set of clothes.

I reached under the pillow and found Advanced Potion-Making: Year 7. The cover had a crease near the bottom corner. Remus had brought the books and kit when we left the last safe house; he’d insisted I take them so I would not be behind if the chance came. I picked a quill with an even nib and a notebook with clean pages. Checking my silver knife, I noticed no nicks or imperfections. I wiped the blade with a dry cloth and folded it into the side pocket. A bundle of blank labels sat next to the seven phials I counted. I slid everything into the satchel and fastened the buckles.

A thought ran underneath it all and would not stop. My throat felt tight, and my pulse pushed hard under the skin at my neck. You do not belong. You will ruin this. You are not what they expect. You are on your own. I wanted to say Remus’s name and hear him answer from down the corridor or come around a corner with his sleeves rolled and tell me I would manage. He did not need many words when it mattered. Standing beside me had always kept my hands from shaking.

He was not here. He could have been behind any staff door. I did not know the routes to any of them. I could not even say how many floors I had to cross. And I shouldn’t have been leaning on him now. That was the point. Turn up. Learn it. No excuses.

You said you could do this. So do it.

I pushed the last item into the satchel, buckled the strap, and checked it twice. My fingers trembled and kept moving. I wiped my palms on my robes and pulled my laces tight until the leather bit my hands. I tied them neatly and ran back out.

Hermione waited by the dormitory door. She did not check her watch. No sigh. No look. She nodded once. “This way.” She set off, and her curls lifted with each step.

“Keep left or you’ll circle the third-floor landing,” she warned. “Some staircases rotate every few hours, and they will not pause if you wait. If a suit of armour twitches, leave it. It’s enchanted and not very bright.”

I kept her shoulder in view. She did not hesitate. Hinges creaked at the same turns. A draught from a high slit window touched the same part of my neck each time. Heat gathered near a brazier and faded two arches later. I tried to mark each point. A portrait of three monks watched us, and one of them went back to snoring when we passed. On our right, a tapestry hid a secret passage; a similar one on our left covered only stone. Students pushed by in pairs and in fours with satchels against hips and books under arms. Hermione did not slow.

We took a narrow passage that sloped down. The air cooled and settled along my forearms. The smell changed to damp stone and earth. Drips sounded somewhere out of sight and kept time with our steps for twenty paces and then stopped.

“The Potions classroom is ahead,” Hermione said. Her voice dropped a little and held steady. “Professor Snape is precise. He doesn’t tolerate loose talk or guessing. Follow the method exactly, and you’ll be fine.” She paused for a single breath. “He also notices everything.”

The word fine was not the one my stomach wanted. The warning about attention matched what I already knew.

“Thanks,” I said. My voice steadied and held.

She gave a small smile that touched her eyes. “You’re going to be all right.”

We reached a heavy door with iron straps and scrape marks near the floor where it had caught the stone. Hermione put her hand on the handle and looked back once.

“Ready?”

I nodded. It probably resembled a wince, but it was the best I had.

She opened the door.

Cold air met my face at once. The ceiling sat low. Torchlight on the walls gave a dull orange that did not reach far. Two test cauldrons at the front cast a thin green light that showed the seams in the flagstones. The benches were long and scarred. Knife cuts ran in straight lines where blades had slipped. Old scorch marks formed dark patches near burner rings. Soot had settled along the lip of the nearest hearth and left a grey edge on the stone. Moisture beaded on the inside of the window glass and trickled down in narrow tracks to the sill. A self-stirring cauldron close to the front tapped its spoon against the rim at a steady pace, then went motionless when Snape turned.

Shelves rose to the ceiling. Bottles and jars crowded them. Some labels had curled at the corners from steam, but the names were still clear: hellebore, asphodel, tincture of thyme, powdered horn. A few jars held roots under liquid. Some with pale organs in suspension. One long jar contained four slugs that shifted by a small amount when the torchlight warmed the glass. The air carried steeped herbs and old spice over a base of vinegar.

A slate blackboard stood ready with a chalk stub set on the ledge. Brass scales lined the bench ahead. A water barrel near the wall gave a slow drip that hit the same spot on the flagstone under it. A thin chain hung from the ceiling with a hooked rack for drying bundles. Two bundles were up there already, tied with twine, still damp at the tips.

He stood at the front with his back to us. His robes hung evenly from the shoulders without a fold or crease. Chalk moved in his hand in narrow strokes. His writing was tight and even. Each letter closed cleanly. When we stepped through the doorway, he set the chalk down, turned, and stared.

Severus Snape.

Sallow skin. A hooked nose. A thin mouth in a straight line. His gaze stopped on me and did not shift. There was no surprise in it. He looked as if he had planned for this exact moment, and nothing in it altered his plan.

His eyes went to Hermione.

“Miss Granger,” he called. The sound carried without effort. “Your arrival would be more useful if it were timely. See that it is.”

Colour rose in her face. It was the first time I had seen her falter. “Sorry, Professor.” She moved to the only empty place near the back.

He did not follow her with his eyes. He looked at me. The room grew quiet for several seconds, long enough to hear the drip from the barrel and the tap of the self-stirring spoon when it started again. He glanced at the roll on his desk and then toward me.

“Mr Potter.” Each word was separate and exact.

He had already checked the staff list; he knew the name was legitimate and treated it like an unwelcome fact.

“Late on your first day,” he said, clicking his tongue. “You could spare us this kind of start. Sit.”

“I’m sorry, Professor.”

He raised one hand. My apology stopped on their own.

“I prefer the lesson to continue. Find a bench. We are working.”

I walked down the middle aisle as heads turned and then settled. Two students leaned close, covered their mouths with their hands and spoke a few quiet words. Not a single individual said my name. They looked for long enough to place me and then went back to their work. The flagstones were uneven near the joints. I watched my step and reached the empty stool beside Hermione.

I eased my satchel under the bench and set it square against the leg and sat. Heat spread across my ears. My chest had not settled since we came in. I took a breath and let it out slowly, careful not to make a sound.

I observed the room. A student at the front adjusted their scales until the needle stayed at zero. A quill scratched a little faster and then went back to a steady pace.

Snape spoke about powdered roots, order of reaction, and anti-clockwise stirring at thirty-five degrees. Chalk made a dry scrape each time it met the slate. He gave timings, temperatures, and weights without pause. He did not raise his voice at any point.

Around us, heads lowered. Quills touched parchment. I set out ink and a clean sheet. My fingers shook, so I aligned the bottle with the edge of the desk and held my left hand steady on the page.

Hermione had her textbook open. She edged it so the spine sat between the two of us and tilted it into the light. “We are on elemental properties,” she whispered. “He has assigned a problem sheet. You can copy my notes later if you need them.”

“Thanks.” I kept my voice low. Heat surged up my face. My stomach tightened. I could not tell if it was nerves or lack of food.

We worked. Chairs did not scrape. No one coughed. Snape walked the aisles in even steps, stopping when a weight rested off-centre or a flame ran too high. Hermione wrote fast without losing the shape of her letters. Columns lined up. Headings had single underlines. Small diagrams sat next to the text with arrows and short labels.

She looked up. “You said your name was Harry Potter,” she murmured. Calm and practical. No doubt about it.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“I don’t recognise it,” she said, and returned to her work.

“It’s not an interesting name,” I offered and tried for a small smile.

The words were not true. I knew that. I did not want the stare that came after recognition or the interrogations. Not here. I wanted this room to treat me like any new student who needed a seat and a timetable.

Snape finished writing and faced the class. “First three questions,” he ordered. “Work in silence. You will not speak.”

Paper moved. Quills scratched. I read the first question twice and wrote the key terms under it to keep them in view. My thoughts trailed for a few seconds and then caught up. Heat from the nearest torch touched my right cheek. A draught from a low window cooled my knuckles.

Hermione’s answers grew line by line. She broke the task down and listed reagents under each step. I copied that layout onto my sheet. Once the page held shape, my breathing steadied.

Without lifting her head, she asked, “Where are you from?”

I paused. The question was simple. The answer was not. “I have been living abroad.” I watched her face for any sign of surprise.

“Where?”

“A few places. My guardian moves a lot. I go with him.”

“Military,” she guessed, “or Auror work?”

“Neither. He’s a teacher. He started here this term.”

“Which subject?”

“Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“Professor Lupin?”

I nodded.

She gave a curt nod and wrote another line. That was all. No press for details. No guessing. She took note and left the rest for later.

I underlined the next part of the question. Snape’s robes moved. He passed behind us. I kept my eye on my ink. His shadow crossed my parchment and continued on.

I set my grip higher on the quill so the nib sat square. Hermione’s pen strokes stayed even. Her shoulders did not lift or drop. She carried on with it until each point was down.

She spoke again, too low for anyone else to hear. “My parents took me abroad last summer. A week in France and a few days in the Alps. My dad fell on his skis once an hour. He crossed them every time.”

I glanced across at her. Her voice stayed quiet and steady, meant only for me. She was trying to ease the tension. I had not planned that. I gave a small nod.

“Moving about must help,” she observed. “You’re used to new places, different routines. Hogwarts will set in once you learn the paths.”

I lifted a shoulder. I did not want to agree and make it a lie or disagree and sound bitter. The truth sat between those. I had missed the Great Hall on my own this morning. I was only in this seat because she had stopped and shown me. She was trying, so I gave her the answer she needed.

“Maybe.”

“Hogwarts is all right once you learn it,” she continued. “It’s busy. Corridors change. It settles. You just have to—”

A sharp cough came from the front. The sound cut through the low scrape of quills.

We paused.

Snape stood by the board with his arms folded. His mouth was a straight line. His eyes fixed on us. He let the quiet run for four full seconds.

“Miss Granger,” he said flatly, “I assume you are tutoring our new arrival in the fine art of brewing Veritaserum. It will be useful to him.”

Colour rose fast in Hermione’s face. She started to answer, closed her mouth, lowered her head, and set her eyes on her notes.

Snape watched for one beat longer, then turned back to the board. He took up the chalk.

“Veritaserum is a truth-inducing draught,” he explained. “Clear, nearly scentless when properly brewed. The ministry tightly controls its production. You will not attempt it in this classroom.”

He tapped the board. “The ingredients are: dangerous roots, certain ash, and volatile tinctures. This is not for practice here. Treat it like contraband.”

“Stir only three times per hour in an anti-clockwise direction at thirty-five degrees if you are ever instructed on legal, supervised samples. Record the exact time and temperature. Do not guess.”

He lifted a glass rod and showed the depth of each stir. The faint vapour that clung to the surface cleared and returned with each pass. He set the rod down on a stand and wiped the rim with a clean cloth.

His gaze moved across the room, slow. No one shifted.

Next to me, Hermione breathed out through her nose. “He’s in a mood today,” she whispered, eyes on her page.

I bit the inside of my cheek and bent over my work.

Snape carried on. The chalk marked the board. A torch hissed when oil settled. Warm air brushed against the side of my face. The liquid in the cauldron moved in a slow circle against the rim and tapped it at a fixed pace. Metal rattled when someone set a phial down too firmly and then lifted it again.

My quill dragged on the first line. I adjusted the angle until the nib sat flat on the grain. I copied the heading the way Hermione had done, then laid out the steps with short lines under each one. Dividing the page into sections helped. My breath came in steady counts.

Remus had shown me the same patience at a kitchen table: consistent stirs, eye-level checks, and a wiped rim. “Measure and focus,” he’d said. “If your attention holds, the temperature holds.” The memory steadied my hands.

I had nodded without fully seeing it. Now the steps here matched and made sense.

I wrote each point, even the ones that felt far off. I could not afford to miss a line. Not here.

Snape set the chalk on the ledge and faced us. “You will complete questions four through six,” he instructed. Following that, you must stand and present the weight of five grams of crushed asphodel root on your scales for inspection. If your scales are not true, we are going to adjust them. Correct your weights if they are wrong.

He pointed to the first bench. “Begin.”

A few students stiffened at the word present. I moved to question four. It asked for a sequence of heats over three hours to maintain stability in a base. I set the times in a column and put the degrees next to them. To check, I made a brief note if thirty-four held when cooled. I worked through question five. It asked for a reagent order for a neutral base that could accept wand-wood ash without curdling. I wrote the list, then drew a short arrow beside the third step to remind myself to watch for separation. Question six asked for the reason behind ash measurement by pinch rather than spoon weight. I scribbled the answer Remus had drilled into me. Ash varied in density after burning. A pinch was measured not only by volume but by the way it bound moisture in the air at the bench. That told me which wood had burned and when. A spoonful by weight alone gave me a number with no context.

Hermione’s answers ran down her page. A neat table for question four was drawn to establish time against degree. She added a margin note about cooling in this dungeon compared with the greenhouses. She wrote the word check at the end of the line in a small box and moved on.

I was on my feet when she stood. So did the front benches. We lifted our scales and put five grams of crushed asphodel root in the pans. The room took on a new sound at once. Metal against metal as weights were set down. A soft tap as powder hit the pan. A hiss when someone breathed out too fast. Snape moved along the row without touching the scales. He looked at the line of the needle each time. If the needle sat off the centre point, he watched the student correct it. He did not speak unless a hand hesitated, or a student reached for a larger weight when a smaller one would do.

He got to me. I kept my eye on the needle. It hovered on the mark and did not drift. He did not nod. He looked for three seconds and moved on. Heat eased in my neck.

At the end of the row, he stopped and spoke without turning. “If your scales do not settle, check the feet. Move to a flat area if the bench sags. If you cannot find a level section, speak to me. You will not work on a poor surface. It compromises the lot.”

A Ravenclaw boy raised a hand. “Professor, my five grams set true, but they drift after I step back.”

“Which foot?” Snape asked.

“The left front.”

“Turn the scale. Use the right rear foot in its place.”

The boy did as told. The needle steadied. Snape gave a single abrupt sound that served as approval and went to the front again.

“Sit,” he said. “Question seven.”

I sat. The bench was colder now from standing away from the torch. I rubbed my palms once on my robes and took up the quill. Question seven set a fault to diagnose. A base that clouded at the third hour and did not clear with a specific stir. I wrote three possible faults and tested each against the steps. The burner might be a degree low. Cutting the third ingredient too fine might hold steam at the surface. The rim might not have been wiped after the second hour, leaving a film that fell back and seeded the cloud. I drafted a line for each and gave a fix for each.

Snape paced once across the front, then back. He set a small brass timer on the desk and turned the top. The ring sounded at twenty minutes. He lifted the chalk again.

“Pens down,” he said. “You will pass your answers to the person on your right and check the headings, units, and sequence. No one should mark content, but circle missing units or unclear steps.”

Hermione and I exchanged sheets. She checked my headings first. She circled the unit I had left off on question four. After finding clear steps, she drew a small tick and returned the page. I did the same for her. Her work was neat. I set a single circle where a figure on a ratio would help another person understand her answer. She nodded when she saw it and added the number at once.

“Thank you,” she said.

Snape watched the exchange. “You will do this for the first fortnight. Some of you know your method. Some of you do not. In the process, you shall learn to write so that someone else can follow without guesswork. That is the difference between a stable draught and a mess.”

He tapped the board twice. “Review questions one through seven for Friday. Now, a practical check.”

A few students drew a breath. He raised a hand. “You are not allowed to brew Veritaserum, but you have to brew a neutral base that supports ash and prevents curdling or scorching. You’re going to prepare only the base. Measure with accuracy. Keep the surface clean. If the colour shifts too far from the range on the board, you will decant, rinse, and start again. I will check five benches at random.”

He pointed to a neat set of instructions on the board: heat to thirty-five, add measured water, prepare comfrey in even pieces, stir exactly three times at the intervals established, add plantain, hold, clear the rim, then let the mixture settle and record the colour against the chart. Keep precise time and benches clean.

“Begin.”

Burners flared. I set my ring and placed the cauldron, measured carefully, checked the rod and trusted the steady heat. Knife on cloth. Jars closed. Labels to the front. Hermione proceeded with quiet speed; her cuts matched and her pinch measured true. I mirrored her order and kept my station tidy.

Snape moved between benches, correcting a rim here, a bowed bench there. He stopped at mine long enough to say, “Potter, three stirs. Not four. Not two.” I obliged. The colour held in the band. I decanted one phial, labelled it, and set it with the others.

The timer on Snape’s desk ticked down. He adjusted it at five minutes. At the ring he raised his hand.

“Stop.”

Burners went down. Flames lowered. A few students missed the alarm and then scrambled. Snape waited until all the flames sat low.

“If your base sits clear in the band, decant one phial, label it, and leave it at the front. If it sits outside the band, you will not submit them to me right away, but clean your station, and come to my desk at the end.”

Hermione decanted a phial at once. She wrote her name and the hour in neat print and set the glass at the front among the others. I inspected my colour a final time. It stayed. I filled a single vial to the mark, pushed in the stopper until it fit cleanly, wrote my name in plain strokes, and placed it with the rest.

Snape scanned the row of glass. He lifted one and held it to the light. The rim was checked for clarity, then he put it back. He reached mine, turned it once, watched the way the liquid met the glass, and eased it down without comment.

“Clean,” he said.

We set to it. Cloth on the ring. Water through the cauldron. Tools scrubbed and dried. Scales aligned straight and covered. The room shifted at once at the sound of liquid striking metal and fabric against stone. The scent of vinegar rose again as people wiped benches. I straightened my area and checked the feet of the scales for dust. Hermione capped her ink, ensured the stopper twice, and tied the string around her kit bag.

“Sit,” Snape said. “Two minutes.”

We sat. He did not drag out the last steps. He looked at the clock and then at his list.

“Your next lesson will start at the mark on the board. Read chapter one of Advanced Potion-Making and complete questions eight through ten on a separate sheet. Put your name at the top right and your House beneath it.”

He paused. He did not look at me. “Mr Potter, remain for a moment.”

My throat went dry. Hermione did not speak. She lifted her bag and got to her feet.

“See you outside,” she whispered.

“Yeah.”

Chairs moved back. The door hinges gave a soft groan at the first push and then settled. The class filed out.

Snape waited until the last person had left. He did not sit. He stood at the front with his hands on the edge of the desk and fixed me with that flat gaze.

“You are late to my lesson once,” he stated. “I expect you to be punctual in the future.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Keep your area tidy, and your knife sharp. You should avoid trying to impress others with speed. Slow and steady is better than fast and wrong.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“You will write clearly,” he continued. “Use complete steps. Don’t expect me to guess what you’re missing.”

“Yes, Professor.”

A pause. He studied my face as if he were reading a list behind my eyes. “Granger can assist you in locating the rooms you need. Should she not comply, consult a prefect. You will not wander in the corridors when you should be at a desk.”

“Yes, Professor.”

He watched another second, then jerked his chin at the door. “Go.”

I stood, lifted my satchel, and left. The door closed with a dull thud. Compared to the classroom, the corridor air was cooler. The torch smoke had created a faint taste in my mouth. Hermione waited a short way down, set back from the flow of students so she did not block anyone who needed to pass.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“He told me not to be late again.”

“That’s standard,” she replied. “You were not the first to hear it, and you will not be the last. Come on. Arithmancy next. We’ll want to be early for Professor Vector.”

We fell in with the crowd. Stone underfoot, uneven where the centre wore down. The dungeon smell eased as we climbed. The air cleared with each landing. At the third turn, the portrait muttered a complaint about draughts. A suit of armour twitched at the elbow. Hermione nodded to it without slowing.

“You did well,” she noted. “Your layout was clean. You kept your surface clear. He watched you longer than some others.”

“I’ll take it.”

“He’ll not say good work,” she pointed out. “If he does not take points or call your name in that tone, it’s a good day.”

I managed a short laugh. It came out with less strain than before.

The corridor opened, and the light improved. The smell of chalk and old books reached us from above. My hands had stopped shaking. The skin across my knuckles no longer felt tight. My breath moved in and out without the count I had kept in the dungeon. I set my palm flat against the cool stone of the wall as we took the last turn.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“For what?”

“For stopping earlier. For showing me the way.”

She gave a quick nod. “We’re in the same House. That’s what we do. Left here.”

We turned. Voices rose ahead. A bell sounded from the courtyard and rolled across the pavement. Hermione checked the clock. I adjusted the strap on my satchel so the weight sat evenly on my shoulder. We reached the classroom door just as the first group lined up. I stood straight and set my jaw.

By the time we left the dungeons, my hands had calmed and my head had cleared enough to hold the next round of steps.

We headed for Gryffindor Tower. Two teachers passed us in a side corridor, voices low, saying the border wards near Hogsmeade had flickered during the night and then steadied. I kept my eyes forward and my pace even. News like that travelled fast and helped no one arrive at class on time.

We climbed. A staircase shifted under our feet and locked again on a new landing. A portrait of three monks muttered about draughts; another scowled and pulled its curtain. My timetable said we needed to swap books for Arithmancy. I did not know what that involved. The name told me numbers joined to spellwork. Naturally, Hermione knew. As we walked, she explained patterns, constants and how figures guided certain spells. She pointed out a narrow arch that hid a shortcut, and I would have missed it if she had not tapped the stone with her knuckles. We reached the Fat Lady. She gave the password, stepped through, and went up the girls’ flight of stairs at speed. The stair treads accepted her and held.

I stayed in the common room by the fire and the tall window. I clutched my book by the spine to keep my fingers still and made myself wait where she would see me. The room worked at a steady rhythm. Footsteps crossed the rug. Chair legs moved. Someone laughed near the hearth, and another voice answered from the table by the noticeboard. The flames snapped and pushed out a brief rush of heat across my hands. A chess piece landed, and a second one rolled off the board and tapped the stone. The air held smoke, warm wool and polish. The scarlet hangings did not sway. People proceeded with purpose, collected books and quills, checked pockets for wands, spoke in short bits of talk, and came and went through the portrait hole in twos and threes.

I examined the portrait hole twice and said the password in my head. Sleep had been thin. In the small hours, the stone gave an indistinct echo that travelled through the walls. I lay awake and listened and counted breaths until the sound eased.

I looked down at my timetable. The line wavered for a second. I blinked and steadied the page with my thumb. My thoughts drifted to the teachers in the corridor and the wards. I could still feel the brush of last night’s alarm in the way my shoulders sat. I reminded myself I would ask Remus later if he had heard the same talk, and I told myself not to rush to his office for every question.

“Are you lost?”

I turned. My book slipped in my grip, and I almost dropped it. My chest thumped once, hard enough to notice.

It was the girl from the riverbank. I knew her face at once. Without the wind off the water, she held the same quiet, only closer to the skin. The firelight showed deeper red in her hair. A few strands lay across her cheek, and she moved them away with the side of her hand. She settled on the nearest sofa with one leg tucked under, elbow along the back, and picked a loose thread near the cushion seam with her thumb. Her robes sat straight. Her tie was tight, and her collar stayed flat. None of that made her look stiff. She stood subtly shifting her weight, then found her balance.

I could not place why she seemed familiar beyond the river, but the feeling was there. My chest tightened and then eased. I noticed it and held my breath for a second to stop it from showing.

“I’m not lost,” I answered. “I’m waiting for Hermione.”

She raised one eyebrow and did not comment on the speed of my answer. She came a pace closer, brushed a speck of lint from her sleeve, and extended her arm.

“I didn’t introduce myself before,” she offered. “Ginny Weasley.”

She remembered the river. I had not expected that. I had counted on slipping out of her day the way I had slipped in. Her eyes were brown and steady. She kept them on mine.

I took her hand. Her skin was warm and dry. Her hands were small but sure, and she let go at the right time. I held on for a fraction longer, caught it, and released. The fire hissed. A chair scraped. The cloth under my thumb felt smooth where it had worn down.

“Harry,” I told her. “Harry Potter.”

The corner of her mouth moved. A tiny but visible change came over her face.

“Well then,” she remarked. She folded her arms in a loose line that did not close me out. “See you around, Harry.”

I nodded. I couldn’t come up with a helpful response that seemed natural. When she said my name, the sound sat clear and solid inside my chest, and for the first time since arriving, I could breathe without the name feeling like a borrowed thing. I turned toward the portrait hole. The Fat Lady tutted when the frame swung open. I muttered, “Sorry,” and stepped through. The corridor air was cooler and clean. I drew a full breath and felt it settle in my chest.

I did not move far. The last few stairs sounded behind me in quick steps. Hermione reached me two minutes later with her panting and a pile of books under one arm. She was already talking about predictive runes, prime values and how certain sequences held a spell on a stable line. I nodded where it fit and made the right sounds. I heard her, but my attention was not on the details.

I could still hear Ginny say my name. The sound sat in my chest and in my head at the same time. She had said it plainly and directly. No test in it. It carried no weight. Neither pity nor curiosity was carried by it. It was a simple fact. It belonged to me. That was new. The hot knot behind my ribs tightened again when I replayed it. It stayed.

At midday, I reached the Great Hall and learned something simple and embarrassing. I did not yet know how to move through this school. Without getting in the way, I couldn’t sit on a bench. I clipped someone’s shoulder, paused at the wrong end of the table, and stood too long while other people moved past with plates already filled.

It was not only the lessons that unsettled me. The building itself was large, bright, and difficult to handle. A staircase pulled back when I put my foot on it. Sometimes the portraits would respond with full sentences and even ask questions. A suit of armour gave a dry rattle when I walked by and muttered something rude in a voice blocked by dust. Students, first in tens and then in hundreds, travelled along paths they knew by habit. As they ate and drank, they chatted and joked, never bumping into each other or stopping the flow of conversation. They belonged. I did not. I did not know the rules of these corridors or the pattern of a day here.

Hermione and I found spaces at the Gryffindor table. She set her books in a neat line, put her cutlery straight, and poured juice with a steady hand. I tried to sit without knocking anything and almost sat on a satchel. I apologised, but the noise drowned out my words. The bench was tighter than I expected, so I kept my elbows in. A dish of roast potatoes drifted past, and I leant back to avoid it. I took a cheese sandwich because it was close. The bread was soft and fresh; the butter tasted salty, and the pumpkin juice was cold and sweet and left spice at the back of my tongue. Steam rose from platters further along the table and carried pepper and gravy.

Hermione turned to me with that focused look she used for difficult homework and mislabelled vials. She lowered her voice a little. “So,” she began, “what do you make of everyone so far? Anyone caught your eye?”

She asked without warning. My hand paused before my plate. “What?”

“You heard me,” she pressed, and kept her eyes on me.

I coughed into my goblet and almost spilt juice on my sleeve. “I have not really…” I stopped. She was enjoying herself. “I have not met anyone. Not properly.”

She hesitated with her fork above a roasted carrot. “No one?”

“I ran into someone,” I admitted too quickly. “In the common room.”

“Oh?” Her tone was mild. “Anyone I know?”

There was no reason to hide it. Saying the name seemed strange. I paused before I spoke. “Ginny,” I managed.

Hermione’s face went still for a second. I saw it. “Ginny?” she asked, keeping her voice even, though something shifted underneath.

“Red hair,” I said, and felt foolish at once. “Brown eyes. In the common room. She said her name was Ginny Weasley.”

She set her fork down with care so it did not scrape the plate. “She is the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain,” she noted. “One of the best we have had in years.”

“Oh. I wouldn’t know. She seemed sound.”

Hermione frowned, weighing her words. “Be careful, Harry,” she warned, lowering her voice. “I would not go for her if I were you.”

“Sorry?”

“Ginny is lovely,” she continued. “She is also complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

She circled her spoon once through her soup, watched the surface settle, then lifted her eyes to me. “A lot of boys tried to get close to her in the last couple of years. She’s clever, witty, sure of herself, proficient with a broom, and has a particular look. You can picture the attention.” She paused. “She does not welcome much of it.”

I kept my mouth shut. It felt safer. My breath snagged.

“Is she with someone?” I asked. I aimed for casual. The strain showed.

Hermione did not answer at once. When she did, her voice was quiet. “She was. Michael Corner. For a long time. Everyone thought it would last. No rows that spread through corridors. No silly breaks before exams. It looked steady.”

The space between my ribs went tight. “What happened?”

“He died,” she stated, with no extra detail in her tone. “A year ago.”

No one at our end of the table spoke for several seconds. A knife clicked on a plate further down. A chair leg grated on stone. Warm air from the food rose against my face and intensified the gravy smell. My fingers pressed around my goblet and stayed there.

“He was sixteen,” she added. Saying the number made it worse. “He went missing after the last match of the season, Ravenclaw against Slytherin. They found his body two days later by the river. People avoid the subject now. It was awful.”

My fingertips dug into the table edge. The grain marked the skin. My fingers turned stiff. The mention of the stream stayed in my head and did not move on. I kept my eyes on my bowl. The soup smelt of pepper and stock. The taste had gone. My mouth was dry.

“Did anyone find out what happened?” I asked. I lowered my voice so it would not travel along the bench.

Hermione shook her head. “Not properly. There were rumours. No open attacks, nothing public. Work done at night with little trace for the Aurors to write up. The Aurors released hardly anything. And Ginny never spoke about it, not to anyone I know.”

I swallowed and felt the scrape at the back of my throat.

“She did not break down,” Hermione whispered, even quieter. “Not where others could see. She kept turning up. She trained, captained, revised, took exams, communicated when asked, and smiled when expected. Questions stopped after a while. People let her carry on. I think she wanted that.”

“She hides it well,” I murmured. The words were small.

Hermione’s mouth pulled into a brief, tired smile. “Yes. Most people stop looking for signs. She can manage the day, but anything that needs trust, or time, or patience from someone else is harder.”

She studied my face the way she read footnotes, only softer. “Just be careful, Harry. She has had enough to handle. I know this isn’t my place, but I’d feel awful if either of you were to get hurt.”

I nodded. Not because I knew exactly what I was agreeing to, but because nothing more seemed sensible. I was unsure of what I needed to watch out for. Ginny had not flirted. She had not leant in, tipped her head or thrown a line for me to catch. She stood up, met my eyes, said her name, and left. That was all. I could not get her out of my head.

We ate in a slow, practical way after that. Conversation rose and fell around us. A plate of sausages drifted past on someone’s spell and hovered in mid-air when a second spell crossed it, then moved on again. The Slytherin table broke into a momentary burst of laughter and went quiet. The Hufflepuff table sang two bars of something and stopped when a prefect lifted a hand. I finished the sandwich because it was there, drained the goblet, and put both hands flat on the table to keep them still.

The afternoon carried on. A staircase shifted before I reached the top step and made me walk back and try another route. A portrait of a warlock in a tight collar told me I was going the wrong way and refused to say which direction was right. Students crossed halls with plates and books, calling to each other above the noise. I caught names and pieces of plans, none of which I could hold. My thoughts would not stay in order.

Arithmancy ran long in my head. Professor Vector wrote on a clean board with numbers and runes in straight columns and explained how values settled when the base stayed constant. The chalk clicked and held my attention in short patches. I took notes in boxes because it helped me see where one part ended and the next began. The room smelt of chalk, old paper, and ink. The windows were tall. Light sat on the top edge of my desk and did not reach my lap. When I stopped writing, my hand eased.

My mind returned to brown eyes and a small, contained smile. I replayed the sound of her voice by the river and in the common room. She had said my name plainly. No test. No delay. When the memory ran, the hollow in my stomach subsided. When it ceased, it came back.

The riverbank stayed clear. Bare feet on wet stones. Arms loose at her sides. Chin up to keep hair out of her mouth. No one else was near the place she had sat. Cool air moved across the skin there. She saw me, considered, and did not send me away. The small lines at the corners of her eyes eased when she smiled. I could call up the exact shape of that change.

Now I had her name. I repeated it to myself, and told myself it did not matter, that I was tired, that I had imagined the way her gaze held mine. I was not used to steady attention from someone my age, and the lack of shock over my name had knocked me off balance. None of that altered the fact that thinking of her felt simple and strong at the same time.

She made me alert and unsettled. My shoulders tightened. My breath shortened when I realised I had been staring at a blank part of the page for too long. I forced my eyes back to the numbers. The corrections from Professor Vector were clear. She did not waste words. When I wrote the right line, she tapped the desk once with the tip of her quill. It left a faint mark on the wood. She did not praise beyond that and did not need to. I adjusted the next line and kept going.

At the end of the last lesson, my shoulders ached and my neck felt tight from keeping my head turned at the correct angle to follow speech without missing anything.

My thoughts had not held still at any point. They returned to the same place each time I stopped concentrating on a board or a page. Brown eyes. A quiet voice by the river. A hand offered in the common room that was warm and dry with a firm grip and a clean release. The memory ran on its own without effort. It steadied me and unsettled me at once.

I saw the way she stood. Both feet set. Shoulders level. Eyes steady on the person in front of her. No checking of the place for reactions. A smile that did not change shape to suit another face. Hands resting, and not fidgeting. Breathing even when the common room filled, and the voices grew. Those details suggested strain held under control. I wanted to be near her, but I was cautious at the same time. The two things sat together and did not resolve.

None of this helped me do what I was supposed to be doing. My purpose here was to learn, to remain alert, and to be ready. I had promised, repeating the promise while chalk tapped the Transfiguration board, where instructions moved across the room faster. I stayed with the instructions, wrote them down in small, clear steps, and did not let my mind wander beyond the length of a breath.

I set rules for myself as I walked out into the late afternoon. If I saw Ginny again, I would look away. If she spoke, I would answer, keep it short, and move on. No questions, no waiting around, and not letting her under my skin.

I repeated the rules and knew I would break them, and that small, certain fact felt like the start of something I could not yet name.