Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ The Space In-Between ❯ A Quiet Reckoning ( Chapter 9 )

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I could not sit up. Every muscle betrayed me after last night.

The dormitory lay quiet; the castle’s thick stone had muffled the usual chatter. The brightness filtering through the windows offered a dim, colourless view, and the ticking of Seamus’ clock was overly noticeable.

A faint breeze came through one chipped window and moved the red and gold hangings of my four-poster. Pale patches of light shifted across the sheets. I stared at the movement and could not settle my thoughts on anything.

From the portrait by Seamus’s bed, a painted woman cleared her throat and muttered a comment about damp mornings. The sound formed a thin, distracted thread through the quiet, and I found I was listening to the words without hearing them.

My limbs felt heavy, though I was not sleepy. My muscles would not relax; my body had not caught up with what had happened. The argument kept replaying in my head, the way it tore apart the plan. Short phrases and glances persisted, repeating until I couldn’t breathe.

I hated it. My thoughts would not stop: quick, jagged flashes of the quarrel and the stares that followed. The room answered with nothing.

Beneath everything was a tight, angry weight in my ribs. My jaw ached from clenching.

There was a hard knot in my stomach that would not ease. I knew Remus meant well. He always had. And I owed him more than I could ever say. But that didn’t make it right. It wasn’t bloody fair.

He had looked at me as if I did not belong. Not surprised; something harder; a steady doubt in his eyes that made me feel small. As if wanting a thing for myself, or liking someone, was careless and dangerous.

He still thought I needed watching: too fragile to trust, too broken to try.

After everything.

I turned onto my back and stared at the canopy, the shadows above shifting with the breeze. My jaw had locked, and my teeth ached from clenching. I couldn’t shake it, the way Remus had spoken to me—not angry, not shouting. No, it was worse than that. It was quiet, cold, and measured. And in some ways, it cut deeper than any raised voice ever could have.

Everything felt limited now. The life I was trying to build here, whatever I could call mine, depended on me keeping my head down and following a plan. No noise, no missteps, and no distractions like Ginny.

She was not a quick crush. She was straightforward. I hadn’t experienced anything clearer than her in a while.

And she saw me. She did not flinch; she did not treat me as if I might break; she laughed; she pushed back, and she challenged me. When she looked at me, I did not feel fragile. I was noticed and wanted.

And I longed for her too.

So much, it scared me.

But not in the way Remus thought. Not in a manner that caused me reckless or unstable.

The idea of walking away before it started terrified me. I wish I could want something without paying just once.

Suppose I didn’t have to suffer to earn the good things.

He had made it sound clinical and strategic: keep distance, no attachments, no risks. It was as if they would guard a part of me until they determined they could use me.

But I wasn’t on probation and a bloody experiment. And yet, every glance from him led me to feel as though I was back under observation.

I was just a boy trying to put myself back together and work out what life looked like now that it was mine again.

And wasn’t that the crucial part? Was that not the reason we fought at all?

Missions, curses, and dark artifacts weren’t anything she was involved with. She was not part of any plan or prophecy. She was Ginny. Fierce, funny, and stubborn, and for whatever purpose, she wanted to spend time with me.

Not me that faced Voldemort, nor the one who’d collapsed in the Room of Requirement. Just… me.

And Remus didn’t trust that.

He was doubtful about me.

And maybe that was what stung the most.

I rolled onto my side and pressed my face into the pillow, fingers digging into the edge. I had thought he saw me and understood. Now all I could see was doubt in his expression and the fear beneath his words.

What if he’d never stopped seeing the cracks?

What if he never would?

My throat closed, and something stuck there so that swallowing hurt. I blinked and felt my jaw ache from clenching.

I didn’t want to disappoint him or disappear either.

Was it worth it to sacrifice everything for security?

I’d done every single thing that was asked of me. Lost all I was supposed to lose. Sacrificed. Survived. And now, when something good finally came close, did I have to leave?

I couldn’t do that.

Not again.

Not unless I had to.

And even then… I’m not so sure I could.

I slept poorly that night. My rest was shallow and broken.

The dormitory was quiet around me, and every creak of wood or rustle of fabric felt louder than it should have been. I must have dozed off sometime near three, though I couldn’t remember slipping under. One moment I was staring up at the ceiling through the gap in the hangings, thoughts chasing each other in circles; the next I wasn’t in bed anymore.

Sleep pulled me down, the way it did when my mind was too full. The dream that came was not a single memory but a jumble of fear and guilt.

I was somewhere else.

The Great Hall.

Only it differed from the one I knew.

At first glance, it looked the same: the vaulted ceiling above, bewitched to show a stormy night sky, the clouds heavy and the stars dim. The four long House tables stood in neat rows, candles still suspended mid-air. But something was off. The colours were all wrong. Everything lost its warmth, as if the world had become entirely monochrome. The air was stagnant and thick.

The walls looked like they were changing; the plaster caught the light differently and made the surface seem to move. A portrait that complained about the smudged frame stood still and watched me.

It was completely silent.

And I was utterly alone.

I was there, rooted to the spot, and took one hesitant step forward. My footfall echoed, sharp enough to make my skin crawl.

Then there was a piercing crack: a wand being drawn.

I turned sharply, heart hammering against my ribs, but there was nobody behind me.

The Great Hall doors slammed outward, then burst wide with a crash that sounded more like a shout than a swing. A blast of icy wind and thick, choking smoke barrelled into the room, curling at my feet, obscuring the walls, the ceiling, everything. It smelled of rot and ash, the smell you get from long-burnt things. Figures emerged from it, dozens of them. All in hooded cloaks. No eyes, no mouths, no faces. Just deep hollows where human features ought to have been. They moved as one; their robes barely stirred, and their footsteps made no noise on the stone. They raised their wands.

I reached for mine and felt nothing in my hand. I became numb in the space where my wand should have been, and my palms were empty.

Panic flared. I turned to run.

And stopped dead.

It was Ginny.

She was behind me, close enough to touch. Her eyes were wide, her hair matted to her face with blood. A long smear of it trailed down her cheek. Her lips split.

“Harry,” she said, in a voice too young, too fragile. “You said you’d protect me.”

I tried to speak; I wanted to say I would, but no sound came. My mouth moved, but my throat wouldn’t work. It tightened, and I could not force air down. Swallowing became a strain, every breath short.

Ginny stepped back.

Her face changed, disappointment settling into each line. Then, silently, she vanished.

In her place stood Hermione.

She had her arms crossed, her expression stony. Unreadable.

“You’re a liability,” she said, her tone cutting. “You can’t even look after yourself. What made you think you were ready for anything?”

I shook my head. “No,” I started, but she cut me off.

“So we left. You are going to get us all killed.”

I took a step back, stomach twisting, but collided with someone behind me.

I turned again, heart hammering, and met a silence that felt heavier than the smoke.

Another figure. Taller. Thinner.

Remus.

He offered only stillness. Tired and worn down, he looked at me with eyes full of a quiet, unforgiving disappointment.

There was no need for him to speak. I already knew what he thought.

I turned back, only to find the hooded figures were advancing now. Much closer. They’d circled. Slow, deliberate movements. Wands still raised. I could hear my pulse in my ears.

My legs wouldn’t work.

A sharp pain jolted up my knee as I collapsed. The floor was freezing beneath me. I tried to scramble backwards, but there was no place to move.

My chest heaved, but I couldn’t get enough air in. Every breath snagged.

The edges of my vision had darkened.

In the distance, a baby cried, a long, thin wail that cut across the noise and made my skin go cold.

A clear, icy, and unmistakable voice spoke near my ear. “Everything you touch falls apart, Harry.”

And then came Ginny’s scream; raw this time, no echo, no dreamlike distortion.

I spun around and saw her on the opposite side of the hall, fighting to reach me, her arms stretched out, her face contorted in fear.

But the Death Eaters were between us now. One stepped forward and raised their wand, tip aimed at her chest.

“No,” I gasped.

I tried to get into a standing position. Made an effort to move. But my limbs would not obey. It felt as though my feet were stuck to the floor. My throat was as if it were on fire as I shouted, “GINNY!”

I sat bolt upright in bed, struggling to breathe.

The dormitory was dark and still. Sweat had soaked my sheets and twisted around my legs, and the air was far too warm. I pushed the hangings aside, gasping like I’d just surfaced from underwater.

It took a few moments to realise I wasn’t choking.

My heart was hammering. My T-shirt clung to my back. I ran a hand over my face to try to stop the shaking.

I had had worse nightmares before, filled with green light and that laughter that never stops. This particular thing felt different and dangerous in a way that reached into now. My mouth tasted of iron. Ginny’s face kept appearing in my head, streaked with blood.

It was not the past. It seemed like a test of what was happening at that moment. Every doubt I had been avoiding stood out plain. Guilt. Shame. Inadequacy. Loneliness. I was still afraid because I felt broken. Still dangerous.

Not yet good enough for the people I care about.

I curled up against the headboard, arms around my knees, forehead resting against them. My pulse hadn’t steadied.

I didn’t sleep again, because I couldn’t trust what I’d find if I did.

After that night and a day of not sleeping, Monday morning arrived, and a change had shifted.

It wasn’t anything obvious—not the shift in the weather, nor the castle itself, nor even the sleepy murmurings of students filing into the Great Hall. The walls hadn’t tilted, the torches still flickered the same, and nobody looked at me differently as I passed.

But there was something. In me.

I couldn’t explain it. There wasn’t relief, nor clarity, but an ache had eased. The knot in my chest, the one that had been twisted tight for days, had come a little undone. It hadn’t vanished, but it no longer felt strangling. Just a dull, throbbing pain, like a bruise on the mend.

Still sore. Still there.

But survivable.

I had taken a long shower until the steam fogged the mirrors and the taps hissed. A house-elf’s tea tray clattered somewhere in the corridor as the common room came to life. One of the portrait frames gave a small, pointed cough as if to clear its throat and gossip. It made the day seem very odd.

I dressed and gathered my things on autopilot; nothing required thought.

The Great Hall was already half full when I arrived. Morning light fell from the enchanted ceiling and made the room appear too bright. The sky above was cloudless blue, but the sound of boots and the ordinary noises made me feel smaller, as though life continued with or without whatever I had done.

Hermione was sitting alone near the end of the Gryffindor table, her head bent over The Daily Prophet, lips pressed into a thin line. I recognised that expression. Despite disliking it, she couldn’t stop reading.

She glanced up and straightened. Folding the paper, she put it down and reached for a mug. “Thought you might need this,” she said softly, still not quite meeting my eyes.

“Thanks,” I murmured, accepting it. The heat in the cup seeped into my fingers in a way that was oddly grounding. I took a sip. It was scalding, but I didn’t mind.

She waited until I set it down again before speaking.

“How are you feeling?”

Her voice was gentle, but there was steel underneath, the kind that never accepted a simple answer.

I thought about lying. It would have been easy to brush her off with a ‘fine’ or a shrug that meant nothing. But I couldn’t lie. Not to her.

So I went with, “Better. I think.”

It was half true, which felt close enough.

There was a silence that stretched between us, not hostile but uncertain. She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, her eyes still flicking over the headline, though I doubted she was reading it anymore.

“I wanted to say,” she began, then paused. “I’m sorry. About the change of plans this weekend. I shouldn’t have left you to deal with it on your own.”

I shook my head. “You couldn’t have known. And anyway, it wasn’t your fault.”

I didn’t mention Ginny. The edge of that thought was far too sharp. Just brushing against it stung.

So instead, I told her about Remus.

Not everything. Not how the words persistently rang in my ears, or how I’d dreamt about them taking form and turning on me. But enough: the argument, the disappointment, and the disbelief I still hadn’t shaken.

“I have never heard him like that before,” I whispered. “Not with me. He has always been calm. He listens. I thought he was steady.”

Hermione was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Have you considered Remus might be struggling as well?”

I looked at her sideways. “He didn’t seem like someone holding it together.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She turned to face me, her voice gentle but clear. “Harry, Remus’s responsible for you, isn’t he? If anything were to go wrong, he’d be the one explaining to McGonagall. Or Dumbledore. Or, worse, to the Ministry. He’s walking a line. It’s not just about rules, but about fear.”

The words landed harder than I expected.

I stared down into my mug, watching the swirls of steam disappear into the air.

“I don’t want to lose his expert opinion,” I said, so low I wasn’t sure she’d heard me.

“You haven’t,” she replied without hesitation. “But you scared him.”

I didn’t answer.

I knew she was right.

I had seen it in Remus’s face after I’d passed out in his quarters, buried beneath the frustration and the anger. The dread hadn’t been for himself. It had been for me. Fear that I’d crumble, that whatever ground I could regain was slipping through my fingers once more.

“He wants to protect you,” Hermione went on, her voice softer now. “That’s all. If he sounds harsh, it’s only because he doesn’t know how else to say it. He’d rather upset you than risk seeing you fall apart.”

Her words healed nothing, but they quieted the noise for a while.

I nodded and swallowed.

It made no difference to the ache in my chest. But it shifted something.

Understanding didn’t erase the pain, but it softened it. Took the sting off.

Hermione reached for her toast without another word, letting the conversation settle. Allowing me to think.

And I did.

I omitted telling her about the other argument.

Not the thing that had lodged itself under my skin. The one about Ginny.

That wound felt raw, the edges too jagged to poke at as always. Even in my head.

But it lingered all the same, dogging my steps like a thought that refused to fade. Remus’s voice had been sharp with something worse than anger. The clipped finality of it—“You’re not here to make a name for yourself”—still rang in my ears, as if I had crossed an invisible line and now there was no going back.

The look on his face, tight-lipped and cold around the eyes, haunted me more than I wanted to admit. Disappointment, not in what I’d done, but in who I was becoming.

Was I that reckless? Had I misunderstood everything?

Ginny and I had made nothing permanent. We had not had grand moments or promises. A week had passed since she had turned up beside me and talked. But a change had started. A flicker of something that felt dangerous and necessary all at once.

And yet, I had allowed it to grow and let myself fall headfirst into a matter I hadn’t earned, or even examined properly. I’d acted as though we were already together, that I had any right to imagine a future with her in it.

And now, in the cold light of morning, it all seemed daft.

Ginny Weasley didn’t need me. She was not the girl who waited around hoping for someone to rescue her from her own life. She was the kind who would most likely dust herself off and crack on.

If I disappeared tomorrow, I doubted she’d crumble. Probably, she would mutter something rude before continuing. She wouldn’t come undone. She wasn’t me.

Still, the thought of her moving on without hesitation hit low in my gut, a silent, precise blow.

Jealousy? Maybe. Or guilt. Or some twisted combination of the two.

We’d only shared a handful of conversations and a few glances across study tables. A tension that had not yet turned into anything real. There hadn’t even been a kiss, only the possibility of one.

What if I’d imagined it all? The spark, pull, and the way her gaze had lingered on mine, long enough to send something hot through my chest. Had I just wanted it so badly, convincing myself it was mutual?

Perhaps I’m not falling for her at all?

Is it possible that it’s only loneliness, plain and simple?

That thought sat tight in my heart. It might have been a hunger for attention, a need to be perceived as a person, not a symbol. And she’d done that with her steady eyes and unapologetic honesty. Ginny had looked at me and hadn’t flinched, tried to fix me or pitied me.

But perhaps I had only imagined that too.

Maybe I’d seen what I wanted to see. Created meaning where there was none. Desperate people did that: they reached for comforts that made them feel human in a hard world.

It would be simpler to forget her.

I could withdraw, keep a low profile, perform my assigned work, and not bother her. It would be a prudent decision. The expected one, and the choice everyone would prefer.

No drama. No risk.

Only Harry Potter, the model student, stuck to the plan.

But when I thought of doing it, of letting her go, something inside me twisted.

Not fear.

Not even longing.

Just… loss.

I remembered the heat of her hand on my arm, the way she’d touched me like I wasn’t fragile. As though she knew me. I recalled the dry wit in her voice and the spark in her eyes when she challenged me. In those moments, she gave me neither safety nor reassurance. She provided me with a steady belief in myself.

And that scared me far more than anything else. Because I realized I didn’t bloody deserve it.

Remus had been right.

I wasn’t ready. Dragging someone like her into my mess was wrong. I was still wading through the wreckage of everything I’d lost; myself included.

Things I became involved with tended to break or bring trouble. That idea kept me from trusting myself.

And Ginny deserved better than that.

Greater than me.

Despite that, her name lingered in the back of my mind, never retreating. A half-whispered thought. A door I hadn’t closed and didn’t want to.

I wasn’t ready to let her go.

Maybe never. And that might have been the cruellest part: how much I wanted someone I knew.

Avoiding Ginny proved easier than I had expected, but I had no reason to claim credit for that.

She was not at Hogwarts.

I didn’t notice at first. Monday was a blur of classes and half-listened-to conversations, and when I realised I hadn’t seen her, I told myself she must have been in the library or off somewhere, or else giving me a wide berth. That last possibility had stung more than I cared to admit.

By Tuesday, I’d started keeping track without meaning to, scanning the Gryffindor table at breakfast, glancing towards the pitch during breaks, and listening for her laugh in the common room. Nothing.

By Wednesday morning, the truth clicked into place.

It took very little asking around to find out where she’d gone. Apparently, she had taken the week off and received an invitation for tryouts with the Holyhead Harpies.

I just stared at the boy who told me, a fifth-year who’d fancied the chance to show off what he knew, and managed a noncommittal nod before walking off.

A tryout with the Harpies.

Of course she had. She was meant to move.

She was brilliant on a broom; fearless, sharp, and intuitive, so you couldn’t teach her. People said Professor McGonagall once remarked that Ginny understood the pitch the way Hermione read textbooks: quickly and thoroughly, and with a kind of cool ruthlessness that rendered her practically impossible to out-fly.

Still, something tightened in my stomach that I could not shift. The image made the tightness worse.

It wasn’t jealousy. Or maybe it was. But not of the type I’d ever felt before. It was quieter and more uncomfortable. The realisation, unwelcome and painfully obvious, that her world existed entirely beyond me. While I was a mess, Ginny was living, striving, and soaring.

And I, as usual, had been brooding over something I didn’t know how to name.

Truthfully, I knew little about her at all.

I was familiar with her laugh, the way her nose crinkled slightly when she was holding back a mischievous comment, and the warm weight of her presence beside me. But the rest? I realised unpleasantly that what I understood of Ginny Weasley amounted to mere glimpses.

Brief moments, nothing more.

I had been so wrapped up in how she brought about my feelings, I’d stopped wondering who she was when I wasn’t looking.

Her absence made acting simpler. I was not obliged to brace myself every time a redhead passed by. My head didn’t have to rehearse terrible lines I would never say. I could walk the corridors, not needing to scan faces frantically. Could sit at breakfast without flinching when the doors opened.

The respite was a relief, and I appreciated it.

I wasn’t confident I could have gone through with it. The conversation. Breaking my word. I doubted my ability to speak at all.

Every time I tried to imagine what I’d say, I came up blank. Or worse, started sweating. My attempt at talking had been humiliating. Something about her scrambled the part of my brain responsible for forming coherent thoughts, and that terrified me, if I’m honest.

I did not like feeling out of control. His warning echoed in my head—steady, low, and heavy with disapproval. “You are not here to make a name for yourself.”

The image of her wet hair or holding her hand always made me think of the warning. It intruded on the quiet moments, the in-between seconds when I let my guard down.

I heard it even when I didn’t want to. Especially then.

And yet, the more I listened to it, the more I questioned it.

Was it really such a great betrayal to yearn for someone?

I hadn’t gone looking for her. Feeling anything wasn’t my intention. It had happened gradually, as these things do; one moment I was avoiding Hermione’s strained silences, the next Ginny had appeared at my elbow, bold as you please, making me laugh despite myself. And then, before I’d understood what was happening, she was in my head.

And that was what scared me.

Because she wasn’t mine to have.

She knew a version of me: the quiet, awkward boy who did his homework and avoided eye contact, but not the real me. Only part of it. Not the nights I woke up choking on air, the guilt that followed me around like a second skin, nor the years spent pretending I hadn’t been gutted and stitched back together with string.

I was a damaged version of myself. A boy who carried scars.

If she saw all of it, would she still want me?

Was she going to decide I was too much trouble, looking at the damage? Would she do what most people did when they got close enough to sense the weight I possessed: smile, nod, and back away? Kindly, of course. With sympathy, but retreat all the same.

That thought settled deep in my chest. Cold. Unmoving.

I decided it wasn’t important.

I had other priorities. Remus. My studies. The mission. That I woke most nights bracing for pain that never came, even after all this time. Romance wasn’t possible, nor was there room for it.

But the questions wouldn’t leave.

What if she didn’t want me?

And worse,

What if she did?

Because if she did, if she saw the mess and still reached out anyway, I didn’t know I could walk away from her.

At lunchtime, I found myself squashed between Ron and Hermione at the Gryffindor table, wedged in among the usual lot—Parvati, Lavender, Katie, Neville, Seamus, and Dean. The Hall was loud in that familiar, slightly overwhelming way: the clatter of cutlery, the scrape of benches, and chatter bouncing off the enchanted ceiling. There was something oddly comforting about it. All that noise, all that life—it made Hogwarts feel solid, like it was still itself, even if I wasn’t sure I still was.

Ron was scooping roast potatoes onto his plate. “They’ve got the seasoning spot on today,” he muttered, spearing a large one. “Last week they overdid the thyme. This—this is absolutely perfect.”

Hermione sat straight-backed, buttering toast with precise, restrained movements. She hadn’t looked at me since I took a seat, but I could feel her thoughts pressing in my direction, like heat from a fire you’re pretending not to notice.

The others were already mid-discussion, Lavender and Parvati deep into what I could only assume was the latest conversation about the upcoming Promenade Dance.

The surrounding normalcy was almost obscene.

“If we don’t crack on with our dress orders before Halloween, all the decent silks will be gone,” Parvati said, jabbing her fork with theatrical urgency. “I want a deep midnight blue this year. I read it works for every complexion.”

Lavender giggled. “And who exactly are you trying to dazzle with that, eh?”

Parvati tossed her hair. “That’s classified.”

Hermione made a barely stifled sound of disbelief that was almost a snort and reached for her tea, as if it might help her survive another ten minutes of this.

“Oh, give it a rest,” Ron said, his mouth half-full of roast potato. “It’s ages off. McGonagall probably hasn’t even chosen a chaperone yet.”

“She won’t have to,” Katie said without looking up from her mashed parsnips. “She is the chaperone.”

“Brilliant,” Seamus grumbled, dramatically dropping his fork. “That’s a guaranteed early curfew and a no-snogging radius of at least fifteen feet.”

I sipped pumpkin juice just to keep my hands busy. The conversation swirled nearby: familiar, light, utterly frivolous. I wanted to be pulled into it, but I couldn’t stop feeling as though I was only half there, peering in from somewhere else. It was like watching my life happen around me instead of within it.

“Harry,” Katie said, and I looked up as if I were waking from a dream. “Are you going to the dance?”

The table quieted almost instantly.

I blinked. “Er… I hadn’t really given it a thought.”

“You so have,” Ron muttered, giving my ribs a sharp nudge under the table. “You just went deathly pale.”

“I did not.”

Hermione turned, head tilted slightly, eyes keen. “You don’t have to go, Harry. Honestly, I do not think anyone’s expecting you to brave it.”

“I know that,” I replied a little too quickly and defensively.

Dean leaned forward, his grin lazy. “Well, if you’re not asking anyone, I might have another crack at Ginny.”

Something cold slid down my spine, heavy and inevitable.

It wasn’t just a second; it was a beat of silence that felt like a lifetime. Too long. I didn’t even need to speak; my body betrayed me. My shoulders stiffened. My jaw set.

And of course, Hermione noticed.

“She’s not here this week,” Ron said, frowning slightly.

“Ginny’s at tryouts with the Harpies,” Neville added helpfully. “I heard it from Romilda.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, what? Since when?”

Neville shrugged. “Left last weekend, I think. Should be back in a few days.”

There was a pause, just long enough for me to feel the weight of Hermione’s stare pressing into the side of my head. I kept my eyes firmly on my plate. The roasted carrots had gone stone cold.

Lavender and Parvati’s chatter filled the gap again, mercifully drowning the silence; something about whether Madam Pince would let them into the restricted section for books on wizarding dances from the Victorian era, but I wasn’t listening. Their voices blurred into the general cacophony of the hall. I pushed my food about on my plate; my appetite was gone.

Ginny wasn’t here, and yet somehow she was everywhere.

I’d told myself avoiding her would be the hard part. Seeing her face, hearing her voice and feeling whatever this was coiling in my chest would be too much.

But this—her absence—was worse. Without her, all I had was memory and imagination. And the faint echo of her laughter in empty corridors. It followed me, even into places she’d never been.

I could not stop thinking about her, and I could do nothing about it.

Under the table, Hermione nudged me gently.

“You all right?“ She asked quietly, only to me.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Just knackered.”

She gave a brief nod, but I could tell she remained unconvinced of it.

We sat like that for another few minutes; me feigning to eat, her pretending not to notice. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I shoved my fork aside and stood.

“I’m off to the library,” I snapped. “Have to finish that Charms essay.”

Hermione blinked. “Why didn’t you—?”

“Just because,” I said, already slinging my bag over my shoulder.

“I’ll come with—” she started, but I shook my head.

“No, it’s fine. I need to clear my mind.”

I did not wait for anyone to speak. The noise of the Hall faded after me, replaced by the steady drum of my heartbeat, and her name echoing in time with it.

No matter how far I walked, I couldn’t leave her behind.

If she wanted me, then everything Remus warned about would signify more than quiet lectures and tired looks; it might mean the plan falling apart, and I was not sure I could bear that.