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

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I didn’t go down for breakfast.

The Gryffindor common room was almost unnervingly still that morning—draped in soft gold light and sleepy shadows, all flickering embers and worn velvet chairs. The fire had nearly gone out, but a few stubborn coals still glowed faintly in the grate, casting a low, comforting warmth that didn’t quite reach me.

I sat curled in one of the high-backed armchairs by the window, arms wrapped round my middle, watching sunlight spill across the wooden floor, stretching longer and brighter with each passing minute.

I wasn’t sure if I was hungry. Maybe I was. But my stomach felt too knotted to tell. There was a weight in my chest—solid and unmoving—that left no space for toast or porridge. Just a slow, thick kind of dread that made everything else feel muffled.

Now and then I glanced at the portrait hole, thinking about going down to the Great Hall. But I could see it too clearly—me walking in late, every head turning, conversations cutting off mid-sentence. Hundreds of eyes on me. Whispers were building before I even found a seat.

No, thank you. I’d wait.

It wasn’t until the old longcase clock beside the fireplace groaned out the hour—its echoing chime deep and hollow, as if even the castle disapproved—that I realised I’d made a mistake.

I was going to be late. To my first lesson. At Hogwarts.

Heart racing, I snatched up my timetable from the arm of the chair and bolted for the door, legs moving on instinct more than sense.

The moment I stepped into the corridor, I was nearly knocked flat.

The castle had come alive. Students streamed past in thick crowds, laughter and footsteps bouncing off the high ceilings, robes billowing as they jostled and weaved their way through narrow passageways. Someone’s bag hit my shoulder; another brushed past so fast I barely had time to step aside.

I stood stock still, feeling horribly exposed—I didn’t recognise anyone. Everyone else moved with purpose—talking, laughing, heading off to lessons they knew exactly how to get to. I was just there. A spare part. An extra no one needed.

I looked down at the crumpled timetable in my hand, hoping it would suddenly make sense.

P7. Brilliant. That could’ve meant anything. A room? A floor? A secret code only regular students knew?

Panic twisted low in my gut. For a mad moment, I considered turning round, slipping through the nearest archway and disappearing out into the grounds. If I walked fast enough, I reckoned I could be halfway back to Ottery St Catchpole before anyone even noticed.

I didn’t belong here. Not really. Not the way everyone else did.

“Are you all right?”

The voice cut clean through the noise—crisp, precise, and unmistakably unimpressed.

I turned, blinking, and found myself looking at a girl with a very serious expression, brown eyes narrowed slightly as she studied me.

Her hair was a riot of curls—big, bushy, and utterly untamed, the sort of hair that defied rules and combs with equal determination. She was clutching several books to her chest and looked at me as if she already knew I hadn’t packed the right ones.

“I—er—” I held out my timetable like a white flag. “I’m new. I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.”

She took the parchment, glanced over it in a flash, then raised her eyebrows. “Potions. With Professor Snape. You’re in for a lovely welcome.”

“Potions,” I repeated, trying not to sound horrified. “Where’s that?”

“Down in the dungeons,” she said, already turning. “Come on. We’re in the same class.”

Dungeons. Of course. Why wouldn’t my first proper lesson be held in the bowels of the castle?

Still, I followed her.

“Thanks,” I said, falling into step beside her. “That’s—really kind of you.”

“I’m Hermione Granger,” she said, not looking up. “And don’t worry. Everyone feels a bit lost at first. I made my own map of the castle in first year—colour-coded and everything. If you like, I could copy it for you.”

I blinked. “You made a map?”

“Of course,” she said briskly, as though anything else would’ve been absurd. “Some of the staircases move. You can’t trust them.”

We reached the bottom of the stairs, and she paused, glancing at me expectantly.

“Oh—right,” I said, realising I’d left without half my things. “Give me one second.”

I darted back up to the boys’ dormitory, heart thumping.

The room was empty. I stumbled to my bed and yanked open my satchel, hands shaking slightly as I fumbled for the textbook—Advanced Potion-Making Year 7—which had slipped under my pillow, as if it was trying to hide. Found a quill that didn’t look too chewed. A notebook with barely anything in it. That would have to do.

Stuffing everything inside, I tried not to listen to the small voice in the back of my head.

You don’t belong here. You’re going to mess this up. You’re not who they think you are.

And worse: you’re alone now.

Part of me wanted to call for Remus. Not write—call. Out loud. Stand in the middle of this impossible castle and shout his name into the air, as though the sound of it could pull him through the walls. As though he’d just appear at the next corner, calm as ever, looking slightly dishevelled and faintly amused, ready to tell me that everything was going to be all right. That I’d be fine. That I wasn’t utterly out of my depth.

He had a way of doing that. Not by saying much, necessarily. Just being there. Just standing next to me and reminding me—without needing to explain it—that things would hold together, even if I couldn’t see how just yet.

But he wasn’t here. He could’ve been behind any of the hundreds of doors in this ridiculous castle, and I wouldn’t have known where to start. I’d already forgotten how to find the Defence Against the Dark Arts corridor, let alone his office. For all I knew, he could be three floors up or seven floors down. I didn’t even know how many floors Hogwarts had.

And worst of all, I wasn’t supposed to rely on him. Not anymore. That had been the deal, hadn’t it? Come here. Make it work. No safety nets. No excuses.

You said you could do this, I reminded myself, a bit too sharply. So prove it.

I shoved the last of my things into my satchel and buckled it with hands that wouldn’t quite stop shaking.

When I rejoined Hermione outside the boys’ dormitory, she didn’t say anything about how long I’d taken. No remarks, no sighs, not even a sideways glance. Just a quick nod and a matter-of-fact, “This way,” as she turned on her heel and set off again, her curls bouncing with every step.

“Keep left unless you want to end up circling the third-floor landing,” she said briskly, without breaking pace. “Some of the staircases rotate every few hours, and they won’t wait for you if you hesitate. Oh, and if you see a suit of armour twitch, don’t engage—it’s probably enchanted, but honestly, not very clever.”

I nodded mutely, trying to keep up.

She moved through the castle like someone who knew it intimately—not just the layout, but also its rhythms. The way it breathed, the way it shifted. I followed, trying desperately to memorise every corridor, every turn, every odd portrait and tapestry. There were students everywhere—some in groups, some trailing behind—but Hermione didn’t so much as falter. I might’ve been walking through a maze designed by a madman, but she acted as if the place had always made perfect sense.

Maybe to her, it did.

We turned onto a narrow passage that sloped gently downwards, and the air changed. It grew cooler. The sort of cool that settled into your sleeves and collar without asking permission. It smelt different, too—damp and earthy, and tinged with something metallic that made me think of old pipes or tools left to rust.

“The potions classroom’s just ahead,” Hermione said quietly. “Snape’s… particular. He doesn’t tolerate interruptions or improvising. But if you follow the instructions precisely, you’ll be fine.”

There was a pause, then she added, almost wryly, “Probably.”

That probably landed like a stone in my stomach.

Still, I managed a small, lopsided smile. “Thanks, Hermione.”

She returned it—not the polite sort of smile you give a stranger, but something warmer. Solid. “You’ll be all right,” she said, and there was no doubt in her voice when she said it. Like it was simply a fact.

We reached the heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor, thick with iron fittings and years of wear. Hermione paused, hand on the handle, and glanced back at me.

“You ready?”

I gave a nod. It probably came off more as a wince, but I couldn’t help it.

She pushed the door open.

The air inside was still and cold. The sort of cold that seemed to rise off the floor itself. The room was low-ceilinged and long and lit mostly by the dull orange flicker of wall-mounted torches. A few cauldrons were already bubbling at the front, their contents glowing faintly green in a way that didn’t look entirely legal.

Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with dusty bottles and twisted jars. Things floated inside them—roots, organs, slugs that looked as though they might still be alive. The scent in the air was sharp and bitter, something halfway between damp herbs and mouldering spices, with a faint acidic note that caught in the back of my throat.

And then there he was.

At the front of the room stood a man in sweeping black robes, his back turned to us, scrawling something on the blackboard with slow, deliberate strokes. His writing was precise and elegant—too elegant for a normal chalkboard—but he made it look easy. The moment we stepped through the doorway, he stopped mid-sentence and turned.

Severus Snape.

Sallow skin, hooked nose, thin lips drawn in a faint line of contempt. His gaze landed on us, and he didn’t blink. He wasn’t surprised. He was waiting.

His eyes flicked to Hermione first. “Ah, Miss Granger,” he said in a tone smoother than oil but colder than the room itself. “How delightful of you to join us. I see your punctuality has slipped since last term.”

Hermione flushed. It was the first time I’d seen her look truly wrong-footed. “Sorry, Professor,” she muttered, hurrying to the only remaining seat near the back.

He didn’t look at her again.

His eyes moved to me.

I felt it, even before he spoke. The change in the air. That slow, awful narrowing of his gaze.

“And you,” he said softly, drawing out each syllable, “must be Mr Potter.”

It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

“Late on your very first day,” he went on, clicking his tongue as though the disappointment was almost too much to bear. “A rather inauspicious beginning, wouldn’t you say?”

“I—sorry, Professor—”

He raised one pale hand, and the apology died in my throat.

“I do hope, for your sake, that this isn’t a pattern you intend to continue,” Snape said coldly. “Do sit. Preferably before the lesson ends.”

As I made my way down the narrow aisle between the desks, I could feel the weight of every pair of eyes turning towards me—silent, assessing, curious. One or two students leaned sideways, heads tilted together, already whispering behind their hands. No one said my name aloud, but I knew they were thinking it. Who’s he? What’s he doing here?

I kept my gaze fixed on the floor, half-expecting the flagstones to start shifting beneath my feet—Hogwarts had already proved itself unpredictable enough—but more than anything, I was just hoping the ground might do me a favour and open up. Swallow me whole. End the humiliation before it got worse.

It didn’t.

I collapsed into the empty seat beside Hermione, trying to arrange my satchel in a way that didn’t scream ‘first day’,though I suspected the damage was already done. My ears were burning, and my heart hadn’t slowed once since we’d stepped into the room.

At the front of the class, Snape was halfway through scribbling a new line of instructions on the blackboard—but then he paused, hand hovering mid-air, and turned slightly, just enough to glance back at the room behind him.

“As I imagine some of you have already heard,” he said, his voice impossibly dry, “this is Harry Potter. He is new to Hogwarts.”

He said it the way someone might announce the arrival of a long-lost relative—one you hadn’t invited but who’d turned up anyway and now had to be dealt with.

“Do try not to frighten him,” he went on, his mouth twitching in what might’ve passed for amusement in another person, “or let him frighten you. I expect he’ll find his place soon enough.”

And with that, he turned back to the blackboard and resumed his explanation, something to do with powdered roots and reaction sequences and the importance of anti-clockwise stirring at precisely thirty-five degrees. It was all delivered in the same low, unimpressed tone, as if he’d long ago given up on the idea of anyone understanding him.

The rest of the class kept their heads down, or at least pretended to. I let my satchel slip off my shoulder and land softly against the leg of the bench, then busied myself with finding parchment and ink. It gave my hands something to do, even if they weren’t entirely steady.

Hermione had already opened her textbook. She slid it between us and angled it so I could see. “We’re working through elemental properties,” she whispered, barely moving her lips. “Snape’s given us a problem set. You can copy my notes after, if you want.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, glancing sideways at her. I meant it. But the words felt thin, not nearly enough to cover the combination of gratitude and embarrassment curling in my chest.

We sat like that for a while—awkward but oddly companionable—scribbling and not speaking. Snape prowled the aisles like a predator keeping watch over prey, and no one so much as cleared their throat too loudly. There was a strange stillness in the room, heavy with tension, but Hermione didn’t seem affected. Her quill moved swiftly across the parchment, her handwriting neat and slanted, the sort of script you’d trust in an exam—or in a fire.

Then she glanced at me.

“You said your name was Harry Potter,” she said under her breath. Not with awe. Not like she was trying to impress me. Just calm, curious—like she was checking her memory against a mental list.

I nodded, a little sheepishly. “Yeah.”

She frowned slightly. “Doesn’t ring any bells,” she said, and turned back to her work.

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

That wasn’t true, of course. Not even close. But for once, I didn’t want it to be. I didn’t want to see the shift in her face when she realised. The questions. The whispers.

I wanted to be no one.

Snape finished whatever he was writing and turned to the class again. “Work through the first three questions in silence,” he said. “I’d rather not listen to your misguided attempts at collaboration.”

There was a soft rustle of parchment, the scratch of quills, and the faint creak of chairs as students leaned into their desks. I dipped my quill and tried to focus on the question in front of me, but my brain was still lagging behind. Too much input. Too much to process. I could barely remember what day it was, let alone the properties of crushed monkshood and its effects in root-based elixirs.

Next to me, Hermione was already writing. Her answers were quick and efficient. I could see the way she organised her thoughts on the page—subheadings, lists, tidy diagrams—and I felt a sudden pang of admiration. And envy.

Then, without looking up, she asked, “Where are you from?”

I hesitated. It was a simple enough question, but it caught me off guard. Not because I didn’t have an answer—but because I didn’t know which version of the answer to give.

“I’ve been living abroad,” I said after a moment, watching her closely.

Her eyes flicked up. “Oh? Whereabouts?”

“All over,” I said. “My guardian moves around a lot. I just go where he goes.”

“Military?” she asked at once, her brow furrowed slightly. “Or… Auror work?”

“Er—no,” I said, not entirely sure how to pitch it. “He’s a teacher. He’s just started here, actually.”

That seemed to surprise her. “Really? Who?”

“Defence Against the Dark Arts,” I said.

She blinked. “Professor Lupin?”

I nodded.

Her expression shifted slightly. Not suspicious—more intrigued. Thoughtful.

“He seems nice,” she said finally. “Bit quiet. Looks tired.”

I smiled. That was putting it generously. “He is. Both.”

She nodded as though that answered something for her and turned back to her work.

That was it. No further questions. No suspicion. No sharp glance or casual comment that could unravel everything.

Still, I had the feeling she’d filed it all away.

Hermione Granger didn’t strike me as the sort of person who let things go unexamined. But she hadn’t pressed. And that, for now, felt like a small mercy.

I returned to my parchment and tried again to focus, copying out the first question and underlining the keywords like I thought a proper student might. Snape swept past behind us, his robes whispering faintly with each stride. I kept my eyes on my ink bottle and hoped he wouldn’t stop. He didn’t.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding and glanced, very briefly, at Hermione.

She hadn’t looked at me again. Just kept writing, lips slightly pursed, entirely absorbed in her work.

There was something solid about her. Unflinching. She didn’t make a show of confidence—she simply had it, like it had been earned rather than assumed. It was a quality I recognised, though I didn’t have it myself.

But something about the quiet assurance of her presence made it easier to sit still. To breathe. To believe, just for a moment, that I might actually manage this place.

I turned back to my notes.

Hermione was still scribbling beside me, her quill gliding swiftly across the parchment. The sheer precision of it was mesmerising—like watching someone quietly assemble an entire puzzle in real time and somehow enjoying it.

Then, without pausing her quill for more than a second, she leaned in and murmured, “My mum and dad took me abroad last summer. Nothing major—just a few holiday trips. A week in France, a bit of time in the Alps. Dad’s completely hopeless on skis, honestly. You’d think he was under a Confundus Charm.”

I glanced at her sidelong. It wasn’t what I expected her to say—not that I knew her well enough to expect anything yet—but the casual warmth in her voice caught me off guard. Like she was trying now, genuinely trying, to ease the awkwardness that had hung over our first few exchanges.

She shot me a look—half hopeful, half conspiratorial. “I imagine moving about all the time makes it easier for you. You’re probably used to new places, yeah? Different routines. Hogwarts must be a walk in the park.”

I gave a vague shrug, not quite sure how to respond. She made it sound effortless—slotting into a school full of secret passageways, talking portraits, and staircases that changed their minds more often than most people changed their socks. I hadn’t even known where to find the Great Hall this morning. The only reason I’d ended up in the right classroom was because she’d stopped and offered.

Still, she was trying. So I made a faint noise of agreement and nodded.

“Hogwarts is actually all right once you get the hang of it,” she went on. “Bit chaotic, but it settles. You just have to—”

A sharp ahem rang out from the front of the dungeon, sharp as splintered ice.

We both froze.

Snape stood before the blackboard, arms folded, mouth set in a flat, joyless line. The look on his face wasn’t quite fury—it was quieter than that, but somehow far worse. Cold, cutting disappointment, sharpened to a point. He didn’t have to raise his voice to make your blood run cold.

“Miss Granger,” he said, softly and with clear disdain, “I do hope you are taking this rare and precious opportunity to explain to our newest student the intricacies of brewing Veritaserum. I’m certain he’d benefit enormously from your charming commentary.”

Hermione turned pink. Not just a light flush—her entire face, from chin to hairline, bloomed scarlet with shame. She opened her mouth, but for once words failed her.

“I wasn’t—I only meant—” she began, but then wisely stopped herself. She dipped her head and stared furiously at her notes, suddenly absorbed in them as if her life depended on it.

Snape watched her for a moment longer, letting the silence stretch until it was nearly unbearable. Then, with a sharp turn and a billow of his robes, he returned to the board and resumed his lecture as though nothing had happened.

“Veritaserum,” he said, the chalk clicking pointedly against the blackboard, “is among the most powerful truth-inducing draughts known to wizardkind. Clear, scentless, and tasteless—and virtually impossible to detect if brewed correctly. Naturally, this places it well outside the capabilities of most first-years.”

His gaze drifted across the class as he spoke, heavy and dismissive, and it was hard not to feel like we were being silently weighed and found wanting.

Beside me, Hermione leaned in again, this time barely whispering. “I’m convinced he’s going through a midlife crisis.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself laughing and bent my head over my notes, pretending to study them intently.

Snape continued, naming ingredients in a voice that suggested he couldn’t possibly be less interested if he tried—valerian root, wandwood ash, a single drop of belladonna, brewed over a full lunar cycle, no more than three counter-clockwise stirs per hour, and so on. The potion sounded dangerous, complex, and undeniably fascinating—if only he didn’t make it sound like a punishment.

And yet, even as he spoke, my mind began to wander.

I wasn’t seeing the chalk-dusted board anymore. I was somewhere else entirely. A tiny, draughty kitchen. A wooden table with water rings from forgotten mugs. Remus hunched over a blackened cauldron, sleeves rolled up, murmuring under his breath as he stirred with a slow, deliberate rhythm.

He’d shown me a simpler version of the same draught once—not the full recipe, nothing ministry-worthy. Just the basics. Enough to understand the principles, not the power.

“Sometimes it’s not about the ingredients,” Remus had said, not looking up from the cauldron. “It’s about the intent. Magic listens to more than just your hands.”

At the time I hadn’t known what to make of it. I’d nodded like I understood, but the words hadn’t settled properly in my brain. They were still working their way through me, I think.

Now, watching Snape sneer his way through every syllable, I realised Remus had managed to say something far more meaningful using a fraction of the words—and none of the venom.

Still, I copied everything down, even the bits that didn’t make sense yet. Especially those. I couldn’t afford to fall behind. Not in this class, not here. This place—this castle—wasn’t going to slow down and wait for me to catch up.

Hermione, I noticed, was already pages ahead. Her quill moved so fast it was almost a blur.

The air in the dungeon had grown heavier, thick with potion fumes and the low thrum of concentration. But oddly, I didn’t feel quite so adrift anymore. Maybe it was the familiarity of Remus’s voice echoing faintly in the back of my mind. Maybe it was the steady presence of Hermione beside me, scribbling away as if Snape’s wrath meant nothing.

Whatever it was, the tension in my chest loosened slightly. I was still new. Still unsure of where I stood in this strange new school with its moving staircases and unspoken rules. But for the first time since arriving, I felt like maybe I could survive this.

After Potions, Hermione and I made our way back through the castle to Gryffindor Tower, climbing staircases that still seemed to shift on a whim and passing portraits who muttered or scowled at us depending on their mood. We needed to swap out our books for the next class—something called Arithmancy, according to my timetable, though I hadn’t the faintest idea what it actually involved. The name alone made it sound like a subject for people who enjoyed torturing themselves with numbers.

Naturally, Hermione did know what it was. She’d launched into an enthusiastic explanation about predictive patterns and magical calculations before we’d even reached the Fat Lady’s portrait, then shot up the girls’ staircase at a pace that made it seem like time itself had wronged her.

I was left loitering awkwardly in the common room, somewhere between the fireplace and one of the tall, arched windows. I stood there for a moment, fingers absently tracing the edge of my book, trying not to look as out of place as I felt.

The room was alive with movement. Students came and went, tossing casual greetings over their shoulders, books clutched under their arms, laughter echoing off the stone walls like it had been doing so for centuries. Everyone moved with a kind of effortless confidence I hadn’t yet found—like they belonged and always had. I hadn’t even worked out the trick to the portrait hole yet without muttering the password under my breath like an idiot.

I sighed and glanced at my timetable for the fifth time. The words blurred a little—my mind drifting. I’d barely slept the night before. The castle walls groaned in their sleep, and I’d lain awake, listening.

Then—

“Are you lost?”

The voice came from somewhere behind me, and I turned so fast I nearly dropped my book. My heart thudded like I’d been caught doing something I wasn’t meant to.

She was there again—the girl from the riverbank.

It was impossible not to recognise her. Even without the river breeze or the reeds tangled at her ankles, she carried the same effortless calm about her, only now sharpened. The firelight brought out the red in her hair—deeper, richer. It fell across her face in a deliberately untidy sort of way, like it refused to behave no matter how many times she tried to brush it aside. She made no effort to tuck it back.

She was sitting—no, lounging—on the nearest sofa, one leg curled beneath her, elbow resting lazily along the backrest, fingers idly pulling at a frayed bit of thread near the cushion seam. Her robes were immaculate, somehow—tie properly knotted, collar neat, skirt just so—but there wasn’t anything stiff or formal about her. She wore the uniform the way a knight might wear armour they’d long since grown used to. It fit her like a second skin.

And she was smiling.

That same lopsided smile I’d seen by the river—tilted slightly to one side, not so much smug as knowing. Like she was watching the world unfold and letting it amuse her. It sent a strange little jolt down my spine.

“I’m not lost,” I said quickly—more quickly than I meant to. “Just waiting. For Hermione.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. She studied me for a second longer, then stood with the sort of casual grace that looked unpractised but probably wasn’t. She brushed a phantom speck from her sleeve, took a step forward, and stopped just a pace away.

“I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself before,” she said, extending a hand. “Ginny Weasley.”

She remembered. Somehow, I hadn’t expected that. I’d assumed I’d been a passing moment—a misplaced seventh year who’d stumbled onto her solitude by accident. But no, she remembered. Her eyes said so—brown, yes, but not dull. They were the kind of brown that seemed to hold on to whatever they looked at, like they meant to understand it.

I took her hand. It was warm, sure, and steady. She had a proper handshake—confident, but not trying to prove anything. I held on a moment too long, and I knew I had. My fingers didn’t want to let go quite as quickly as they should have, and my head was suddenly very aware of everything: the quiet hush of the common room, the thud of my own heartbeat, and the way her smile shifted—just slightly.

“Harry,” I said, managing to sound almost normal. “Harry Potter.”

Her mouth twitched, just a little.

“Well, then,” she said, stepping back and folding her arms across her chest in a way that looked perfectly at ease, “see you around, Harry.”

I nodded dumbly, then turned and made a half-hearted beeline for the portrait hole. I nearly ran straight into the Fat Lady, who tutted at me as she swung open. I mumbled an apology and slipped out into the corridor beyond.

Only then, with the cool castle air on my face, did I remember to breathe properly again.

Hermione caught up with me two minutes later, still talking about something to do with predictive runes and numerical resonance. I nodded along and made the right noises when it seemed appropriate, but I wasn’t really listening.

All I could think about was her voice—Ginny’s voice—and the way she’d said my name. Not reverently, not curiously, not like it was a story she’d read about in the Prophet.

Just simply. Like it belonged to me.

I knew then—deep down—that Hogwarts wasn’t going to be simple. And whatever plans I had to stay out of trouble… well, they were already in ruins.

Because something had shifted. And I didn’t know yet whether that was a good thing or not.

By the time midday rolled round and I finally stepped into the Great Hall for lunch, I’d come to an uncomfortable, and frankly embarrassing, realisation about Hogwarts.

I hadn’t the faintest idea what I was doing.

Not just with the classes—though Merlin knew those were a challenge on their own—but the place itself. The castle was vast and brilliant and completely unmanageable. Staircases that retracted when you tried to climb them. Portraits that talked back. Suits of armour that wheezed out rude commentary as you passed. And students—dozens, hundreds of them—who all seemed to have grown up speaking some unwritten Hogwarts dialect that I had, so far, failed miserably to understand.

It wasn’t that anyone had been unkind, exactly. Just… occupied. Students moved in well-worn paths, arms slung around shoulders, laughter trailing behind them, and private jokes passed across plates and between sips of pumpkin juice. They belonged. And me?

I felt like I’d wandered into a play halfway through and couldn’t find my script.

Hermione and I sat at the Gryffindor table—she with her usual focus and tidy efficiency, me considerably more tentative. I nearly sat on someone’s bag before catching myself and muttered a hasty apology that no one seemed to hear. The long benches were more crowded than I’d expected, and I had to dodge two elbows and a levitating platter of roast potatoes just to reach for a sandwich.

I’d barely unwrapped my napkin when Hermione turned to me, that familiar spark of curiosity lighting up her face. It was the look she usually reserved for some particularly perplexing bit of homework or an unlabelled potion ingredient—sharp, interested, and mildly expectant.

“So,” she began casually, but her voice had dropped just enough to signal that something slightly mischievous was coming, “what do you make of the Hogwarts crowd so far? Are girls attractive enough for you?”

I blinked.

My hand froze halfway to my plate, and for a second I honestly thought I’d misheard her. “Sorry—what?”

Hermione smirked, unbothered. “You heard me.”

I coughed into my goblet, nearly spilling my pumpkin juice. I could feel the tips of my ears turning red, and I was fairly sure half the students within five feet had suddenly decided to listen more closely.

“I haven’t really—” I started, then faltered. She was grinning now, enjoying herself far too much. “I mean, I haven’t met anyone. Not properly.”

Hermione raised a single eyebrow, her fork poised over a roasted carrot.

I added, almost too quickly, “I did run into someone. Earlier. In the common room.”

“Oh?” she said, as if this were the most innocent, casual conversation in the world. “Anyone I know?”

I hesitated. There was no reason not to tell her. It wasn’t like it meant anything. It wasn’t a thing. But saying the name aloud felt… odd. Loaded. As though speaking it out loud might make something shift, even though nothing had shifted at all. Not really.

“Ginny,” I said eventually.

The name landed in the air between us. Hermione stilled. Just for a heartbeat—but I noticed it.

“Ginny?” she asked, too evenly. Her voice was still light, but it had changed in some small, deliberate way.

“She had red hair,” I said, suddenly feeling a bit foolish. “Brown eyes. She was in the common room earlier. Said her name was Ginny Weasley.”

Hermione’s fork clinked gently against her plate as she set it down.

“That’d be the Ginny Weasley,” she said matter-of-factly. “Gryffindor’s Quidditch captain. One of the best Seekers the team’s had in years.”

“Oh,” I said, doing my best to sound mildly impressed, which wasn’t difficult. I was impressed. “She seemed… nice.”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.

Hermione gave me a look—the kind that suggested I’d just walked into a conversation she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted me in. She leaned in, her voice lowering just enough that it no longer felt like part of a mealtime chat but something quieter. Something… cautious.

“I wouldn’t go for her if I were you.”

I blinked. “Sorry?”

Hermione folded her arms. “Ginny’s lovely. She is. But—well, she’s… complicated.”

“Complicated,” I repeated slowly, trying to sound neutral but not quite managing it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hermione stirred her soup absently, as though the gentle motion might draw the right words from the depths of the bowl. Her eyes, usually so sharp with certainty, flicked between her spoon and the middle distance, as if unsure of how much to say—or how to say it.

“A lot of boys have tried to get close to her over the last couple of years,” she said finally. “She’s brilliant, you know. One of the brightest in our year. Funny, confident, really talented. And—well, you’ve seen her. She’s beautiful. You can imagine the attention she gets.”

I said nothing, which was probably for the best, because I had, in fact, spent a fair portion of the morning doing precisely that—imagining her.

Hermione kept stirring.

“But Ginny’s… not exactly open to it. That kind of attention, I mean.”

I tried to keep my voice steady. “Is she—? I mean, is she with someone?”

It was a casual question, or I meant it to be. Or maybe I just hoped Hermione would take it that way. But she didn’t answer right away, and when she finally did, her voice had gone quiet.

“She was,” Hermione said. “Michael Corner. They were together for… ages, really. Everyone thought they’d end up married someday. It was one of those couples—solid, you know? The sort that didn’t crumble over stupid rows or exams or who was talking to whom at the Yule Ball. It looked like it was going somewhere.”

I nodded faintly, but the knot forming in my chest tightened before she’d even finished the thought.

“But then he died,” Hermione said, gently now. “It was nearly two years ago.”

The words hung in the air like a spell no one dared break. My fingers stilled against my goblet.

“He was only sixteen,” she added, and that seemed to make it worse, somehow. As though saying the number aloud made it real. “It was sudden. No warning. He went missing after the final match of the season—Ravenclaw versus Slytherin. His body was found two days later, floating on a riverbank. No one talks about it much anymore, but it was… horrible.”

I stared at my plate. I wasn’t hungry anymore. My appetite had vanished entirely, replaced with a cold, heavy feeling that had nothing to do with the soup in front of me.

“Did they ever find out what happened?” I asked quietly.

Hermione shook her head. “Not properly. There were rumours, of course. Death Eaters. Retaliation from some group no one wanted to name. But the Aurors didn’t release much. And Ginny—she never spoke about it. Not to anyone, as far as I know.”

I swallowed hard.

“She didn’t break down,” Hermione continued, her voice barely above a whisper now. “Not in public, at least. She just… shut off. Kept going, like she didn’t know how to stop. Played Quidditch, passed her exams, smiled at the right moments. And everyone let her. They wanted to pretend she was fine. I think she wanted that too.”

“She hides it well,” I said, though the words felt thin.

Hermione gave a small, sad smile. “Yeah. Most people don’t see it anymore. She’s… functioning. But anything beyond that—relationships, feelings, trusting someone again? That’s different.”

She paused, then looked at me with the same thoughtful expression she used when checking over footnotes in an essay. Only softer.

“Just… be careful, Harry. She’s been through enough. I know it’s not really my place to say, but I’d feel awful if you got hurt—or if she did.”

I nodded. Not because I agreed, exactly, but because it felt like the right thing to do. What else was there to say?

But truthfully, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was meant to be careful of. Ginny hadn’t flirted with me. She hadn’t batted her eyelashes or leaned in too close. She hadn’t tossed her hair or smiled in the way girls did when they were trying to charm someone. She’d simply been there—and yet I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since.

The rest of the afternoon passed in the usual blur of strange staircases and overly enthusiastic portraits, and if anyone had asked, I would’ve said the day was fairly uneventful. But inside my head, it was anything but. My mind kept drifting back to a pair of brown eyes and that maddening half-smile. The sharpness in her voice. The steadiness of her gaze. The way she’d looked at me—not as Harry Potter, not as some rumour made flesh—but as though I were just another student. A person.

That had been the first thing, I think, that had made her different.

That and the riverbank.

I kept seeing her there—barefoot, unbothered, untouchable. She hadn’t smiled then, not really. But there’d been something in her expression, something I hadn’t yet managed to put words to. It was strange—almost irritating—how clearly I remembered it.

Ginny Weasley.

Now that I knew her name, I couldn’t stop repeating it in my head. It had a rhythm to it. A weight.

I told myself it was nothing. That I’d been distracted, that I was tired. That I’d imagined the way her eyes lingered. That I was simply unfamiliar with attention from someone like her. But none of it helped. The truth was simpler and harder to ignore.

She unnerved me.

There was a kind of quiet strength in her. A resilience I recognised but couldn’t quite match. And I’d be lying if I said that didn’t draw me in. Whatever had happened to her—whatever she was still carrying—I could see it, even if no one else did. Not in words, but in the way she carried herself. Like someone who had been broken once and had stitched herself back together by sheer force of will.

I told myself it didn’t matter. That I was here to learn, to keep my head down, to train if I needed to. I’d made a promise—one I’d repeated at least five times during Arithmancy, even as the numbers on the board blurred into nonsense.

If I saw Ginny again, I’d look away.

If she spoke to me, I’d be polite. Brief. Nothing more.

I wouldn’t ask questions. I wouldn’t linger.

And I definitely wouldn’t let her get under my skin.

Of course, even as I said it, I knew the truth.

I’d already failed spectacularly.