I woke before the sun, certain I'd already done something wrong.
The dormitory still breathed in slow, sleepy draughts, but my chest didn't follow.
The Gryffindor common room was almost unnervingly still that morning, draped in soft gold light and sleepy shadows—flickering embers, worn velvet chairs. Even the castle seemed to be learning I existed. My name had only just found its way back into the records, like a page reappearing in an old book. The fire had burned low, but a few stubborn coals still glowed faintly in the grate, casting a warmth that didn't quite reach me.
I sat curled in one of the high-backed armchairs by the window, arms wrapped around myself, watching sunlight spill across the wooden floor, stretching longer and brighter with each passing minute.
I didn't go down for breakfast.
I couldn't tell whether it was hunger or dread twisting inside me; my stomach was too knotted to decide. All my life, safety had meant staying unseen. Now I was supposed to exist properly, and I didn't know how.
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 grandfather 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, stretching and stirring as if remembering its own shape. I could feel its magic shifting through the walls—not quite aware of me, but sensing something faint.
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 nearby mentioned a Ministry patrol gone missing near Dover. I looked away before I could hear more. Old habits.
People glanced at me sometimes, not out of recognition, just curiosity. The sort you give someone who feels out of place, like a chair that's been moved slightly out of line.
Remus had said the Order's old wards had been lifted enough for Hogwarts to see me again, enough for my name to appear on the rolls, for the castle to remember I existed at all. But the habit of hiding was harder to shake than any spell.
I stood stock still, feeling horribly exposed. I didn't recognise anyone. Everyone else moved with purpose, heading to lessons they already knew by heart. I was just there: a spare part, an extra no one needed. It wasn't just the crowd; it was the sense that everyone here already had a story, and I hadn't even found my first page.
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 thought about turning around, slipping through the nearest archway and disappearing into the grounds. If I walked fast enough, I reckoned I could be halfway back to Ottery St Catchpole before anyone noticed.
I didn't belong here. 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 then, 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. Her certainty was a relief I didn't know I needed.
"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 fret. 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."
No one had offered me help like that in months. Not without a reason.
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 rummaged for my textbook—Advanced Potion-Making, Year Seven—which had somehow slipped beneath my pillow, as if it were hiding. I found a quill that didn't look too chewed and 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, but call. Out loud. To 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, 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've been anywhere—three floors up or seven floors down. I wasn't even sure 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 a word 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," before turning on her heel and setting off again, her curls bouncing with every step.
"Keep left, otherwise you'll 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 its rhythms too. 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 never faltered. I might've been walking through a maze designed by a madman, but she moved as though it 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 is meticulous. 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, with a touch of wryness, "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 alright," she said, with no trace of doubt. As if it were 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 nodded. It probably looked more like 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, and 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 grace us with your presence. 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.
He glanced at the roll on his desk, lips curling faintly. "Mr Potter," he said at last, each syllable deliberate.
It wasn't recognition, more the sound of a name dredged up from a long-forgotten list.
"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 start, 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 maintain," Snape said coldly. "Do sit. Preferably before the lesson ends."
As I made my way down the narrow aisle between the desks, the weight of every pair of eyes turned 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 what they were thinking. Who's he? What's he doing here?
I kept my gaze fixed on the floor, half expecting the flagstones to shift beneath my feet. Hogwarts had already proved itself unpredictable enough. Mostly, I was hoping the ground might do me a favour and open up. Swallow me whole. End the humiliation before it got worse.
It did not.
I collapsed into the empty seat beside Hermione, trying to arrange my satchel so it did not scream first day, though the damage was already done. My ears burned, and my heart had not slowed once since we stepped into the room.
At the front of the class, Snape was halfway through scribbling a new line of instructions on the blackboard. 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, voice impossibly dry, "this is Harry Potter. He is new to Hogwarts."
No flicker of recognition. No whispered name. Just blank stares and a few curious tilts of heads.
"Do try not to frighten him," he went on, mouth twitching in what might have passed for amusement in another person, "or let him frighten you. I expect he will find his place soon enough."
He turned back to the blackboard and resumed his explanation, something to do with powdered roots, 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 had long ago given up on the idea of anyone understanding him.
The rest of the class kept their heads down or pretended to. I let my satchel slip off my shoulder and land softly against the bench leg, then busied myself with parchment and ink. It gave my hands something to do, even if they were not entirely steady.
Hermione had already opened her textbook. She slid it between us and angled it so I could see. "We are working through elemental properties," she whispered, barely moving her lips. "Snape has given us a problem set. You can copy my notes after, if you like."
"Thanks," I muttered, glancing sideways at her. I meant it, but the word felt thin, nowhere near enough to cover the mix 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. A strange stillness settled, heavy with tension, but Hermione did not seem affected. Her quill moved swiftly across the parchment, her handwriting neat and slanted, the sort of script you would trust in an exam or in a fire.
Then she glanced at me.
"You said your name was Harry Potter," she murmured. Not with awe, not to impress me, just calm and curious, as if checking her memory against a mental list.
I nodded, a little sheepish. "Yeah."
She frowned slightly. "Does not 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 was not true, of course. Not even close. But for once, I did not want it to be. I did not 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 would rather not listen to your futile 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 lagged 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, with subheadings, lists, and 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 question, but it caught me off guard. Not because I lacked an answer, but because I did not know which version to give.
"I have 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 go where he goes."
"Military?" she asked at once, brow furrowed. "Or… Auror work?"
"Er, no," I said, not entirely sure how to pitch it. "He is a teacher. He has just started here, actually."
That seemed to surprise her. "Really? Who?"
"Defence Against the Dark Arts," I said.
She blinked. "Professor Lupin?"
I nodded.
The Order had restored his records a week before term started, with Dumbledore's quiet approval stamped over every form.
Her expression shifted. Not suspicious, more intrigued. Thoughtful.
"He seems nice," she said at last. "A bit quiet. Looks tired."
I smiled. That was putting it generously. "He is. Both, very much."
She nodded, as if 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 to unravel everything.
Still, I had the feeling she had filed it all away.
Hermione Granger did not seem the sort to let things go unexamined. She had not 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 key words like a proper student might. Snape swept past behind us, his robes whispering with each stride. I kept my eyes on the ink bottle and hoped he would not stop. He did not.
I let out a breath I had not realised I was holding and glanced, very briefly, at Hermione.
She did not look at me again. She kept writing, lips slightly pursed, entirely absorbed in her work.
There was something solid about her, unflinching. She did not make a show of confidence; she simply had it, as if it had been earned rather than assumed. I recognised the quality, though I did not have it myself.
Something in 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 scribbled beside me, her quill gliding swiftly across the parchment. The precision was mesmerising, like watching someone assemble a puzzle in real time and enjoy 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 is completely hopeless on skis, honestly. You would think he was under a Confundus Charm."
I glanced at her sidelong. It was not what I expected, not that I knew her well enough to expect anything, but the casual warmth in her voice caught me off guard. She was trying, genuinely trying, to ease the awkwardness that had hung over our first exchanges.
She shot me a look, half hopeful, half conspiratorial. "I imagine moving about all the time makes it easier for you. You are probably used to new places, yes? Different routines. Hogwarts must be a walk in the park."
I gave a vague shrug, not 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 had not even known where to find the Great Hall this morning. The only reason I was in the right classroom was because she had 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. "A bit chaotic, but it settles. You just have to—"
A sharp ahem rang out from the front of the dungeon, as 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 was not quite fury. It was quieter than that, and somehow worse: cold, cutting disappointment, sharpened to a point. He did not 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 utilising this rare and precious opportunity to explain to our newest student the intricacies of brewing Veritaserum. I am certain he would 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 was not; I only meant—" she began, 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 a moment longer, letting the silence stretch until it was nearly unbearable. Then, with a sharp turn and a billow of robes, he returned to the board and resumed his lecture as though nothing had happened.
"Veritaserum," he said, the chalk clicking 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 we were being silently weighed and found wanting.
Beside me, Hermione leaned in again, this time barely whispering. "I am convinced he is 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 could not be less interested: valerian root, wand-wood 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 did not make it sound like a punishment.
Even as he spoke, my mind began to wander.
I was not 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, murmuring under his breath as he stirred with a slow, deliberate rhythm.
He had 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 is not about the ingredients," Remus had said, not looking up from the cauldron. "It is about the intent. Magic listens to more than your hands."
At the time I had not known what to make of it. I nodded as if I understood, but the words had not settled properly. They were still working their way through me, I thought.
Now, watching Snape sneer his way through every syllable, I realised Remus had said something far more meaningful with a fraction of the words and none of the venom.
Still, I copied everything down, even the bits that did not make sense yet. Especially those. I could not afford to fall behind. Not in this class, not here. This place, this castle, was not 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. Oddly, I did not feel quite so adrift anymore. Perhaps it was the echo of Remus's voice at the back of my mind. Perhaps it was the steady presence of Hermione beside me, scribbling as if Snape's wrath meant nothing.
Whatever it was, the tension in my chest loosened. I was still new, still unsure of where I stood in this strange school with its moving staircases and unspoken rules. But for the first time since arriving, I felt I might survive this.
After Potions, Hermione and I made our way back to Gryffindor Tower. In the corridor we passed two teachers speaking in low voices about the border wards near Hogsmeade and how they had flickered overnight. I did not slow down to listen.
We climbed staircases that shifted on a whim and passed portraits that muttered or scowled according to their moods. We needed to swap books for the next class, Arithmancy, according to my timetable, though I had not the faintest idea what it involved. The name alone sounded like a subject for people who enjoyed torturing themselves with numbers.
Naturally, Hermione knew. She launched into an enthusiastic explanation about predictive patterns and magical calculations before we even reached the Fat Lady's portrait, then shot up the girls' staircase at a pace that made it seem time itself had wronged her.
I was left loitering in the common room, somewhere between the fireplace and a tall arched window. I stood there a moment, fingers 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 as if it had done so for centuries. Everyone moved with an effortless confidence I had not yet found, as if they had always belonged. I had not even worked out 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 as my mind drifted. I had barely slept. The castle groaned in its sleep, and I lay awake, listening.
Then a voice behind me said, "Are you lost?"
I turned so fast I nearly dropped my book. My heart thudded like I had been caught doing something I was not meant to.
She was there again, the girl from the riverbank. It was impossible not to recognise her. Even without the river breeze, she carried the same effortless calm, only sharpened. The firelight brought out the red in her hair, deeper and richer. It fell across her face in a deliberately untidy way, as if it refused to behave no matter how often she brushed it aside.
Something about her felt familiar, not memory exactly, but recognition, like catching the scent of rain before it starts.
She was lounging on the nearest sofa, one leg curled beneath her, elbow along the backrest, fingers idly pulling at a frayed thread near the cushion seam. Her robes were immaculate, the tie properly knotted, the collar neat, and the skirt just so, yet nothing about her was stiff. She wore the uniform the way a knight wears old armour. It fit like a second skin.
And she was smiling. The same lopsided smile from the river, tilted to one side, not smug but knowing, as if the world amused her. It sent a small jolt down my spine.
"I am not lost," I said quickly, more quickly than I meant to. "Just waiting. For Hermione."
She raised an eyebrow but did not comment. She studied me a second longer, then stood with a casual grace that looked unpractised but probably was not. She brushed a phantom speck from her sleeve, stepped forward, and stopped a pace away.
"I did not get a chance to introduce myself before," she said, extending a hand. "Ginny Weasley."
She remembered. I had not expected that. I had assumed I was a passing moment, a misplaced seventh-year who had stumbled onto her solitude by accident. But no, she remembered. Her eyes said so, brown but not dull, the kind of brown that held on to what they looked at, as if they meant to understand it.
I took her hand. It was warm and steady. She had a proper handshake, confident without trying to prove anything. I held on a moment too long, and I knew it. The hush of the common room, the thud of my heartbeat, and the slight shift of her smile all arrived at once.
"Harry," I said, managing to sound almost normal. "Harry Potter."
Her mouth twitched, just a little.
"Well, then," she said, folding her arms, 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 into the Fat Lady, who tutted as she swung open. I mumbled an apology and slipped 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 predictive runes and numerical resonance. I nodded along and made the right noises, but I was not really listening.
All I could think about was her voice, Ginny's voice, and the way she had said my name. Not reverently, not curiously, not like a headline in the Prophet. Simply. Like it belonged to me.
I knew then, deep down, that Hogwarts was not going to be simple. Whatever plans I had to stay out of trouble were already in ruins. Something had shifted, and I did not yet know whether that was a good thing.
By the time midday rolled around and I finally stepped into the Great Hall for lunch, I had reached an uncomfortable, and frankly embarrassing, realisation about Hogwarts.
I had not the faintest idea what I was doing.
Not just with the classes, though Merlin knew those were a challenge, but the place itself. The castle was vast and brilliant and completely unmanageable. Staircases retracted when you tried to climb them. Portraits talked back. Suits of armour wheezed out rude commentary as you passed. And students, dozens and then hundreds, all seemed to have grown up speaking an unwritten Hogwarts dialect that I had, so far, failed to understand.
It was not that anyone had been unkind, exactly, only occupied. Students moved in well-worn paths, arms slung over shoulders, laughter trailing behind them, and private jokes passed across plates and between sips of pumpkin juice. They belonged. And me?
I felt as if I had wandered into a play halfway through and could not 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 satchel before catching myself and muttering a hasty apology that no one seemed to hear. The benches were more crowded than I had expected, and I dodged two elbows and a levitating platter of roast potatoes just to reach a sandwich.
I had barely unwrapped my napkin when Hermione turned to me, that familiar spark of curiosity lighting her face. It was the look she reserved for a particularly perplexing bit of homework or an unlabelled potion ingredient: sharp, interested and mildly expectant.
"So," she began casually, her voice dropping just enough to hint at mischief, "what do you make of the Hogwarts crowd so far? Are the girls attractive enough for you?"
The question landed like a Bludger out of nowhere, too sharp to dodge and too absurd to answer.
I blinked.
My hand froze halfway to my plate, and, for a second, I honestly thought I had misheard her. "Sorry, what?"
Hermione smirked, unbothered. "You heard me."
I coughed into my goblet and nearly spilled my pumpkin juice.
"I have not really…" I started, then faltered. She was grinning now, enjoying herself far too much. "I mean, I have not met anyone. Not properly."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, her fork poised over a roasted carrot.
I added, a bit too quickly, "I did run into someone. Earlier. In the common room."
"Oh?" she said, as if this were the most innocent conversation in the world. "Anyone I know?"
I hesitated. There was no reason not to tell her. It was not as if it meant anything. Still, saying the name aloud felt odd, as if it might make something shift, even though nothing had.
"Ginny," I said at last.
The name landed between us. Hermione stilled for a heartbeat, and I noticed.
"Ginny?" she asked, too evenly. Her voice was light, but something in it had changed.
"Red hair," I said, feeling foolish. "Brown eyes. She was in the common room earlier. She said her name was Ginny Weasley."
Hermione's fork clinked gently against her plate as she set it down.
"She is the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain," she said matter-of-factly. "One of the best the team has had in years."
"Oh," I said, doing my best to sound mildly impressed, which was not difficult. I was impressed. "She seemed sound."
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say.
Hermione gave me a look that suggested I had walked into a conversation she was not sure she wanted me in. She leaned in, her voice lowering until it no longer felt like mealtime chatter but something quieter, cautious.
"I would not go for her if I were you."
I blinked. "Sorry?"
Hermione folded her arms. "Ginny is lovely, she is, but she is complicated."
"Complicated," I repeated, trying to sound neutral. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Hermione stirred her soup, as if the motion might draw out the right words. Her eyes flicked between her spoon and the middle distance, unsure how much to say.
"A lot of boys have tried to get close to her over the last couple of years," she said at last. "She is brilliant. One of the brightest in her year. Funny, confident, really talented. And you have seen her. She is beautiful. You can imagine the attention."
I said nothing, which was for the best, as I had spent a fair portion of the morning doing exactly that, imagining her.
Hermione kept stirring.
"But Ginny is 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 meant to be casual. Maybe I only hoped she would take it that way. She did not answer straight away, and when she did, her voice had gone quiet.
"She was," Hermione said. "Michael Corner. They were together for ages. Everyone thought they would end up married. One of those solid couples that did not crumble over stupid rows or exams or who spoke to whom at the Yule Ball. It looked like it was going somewhere."
I nodded faintly, but the knot in my chest tightened before she had finished.
"But then he died," Hermione said, gently now. "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, which somehow made it worse, as if 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. They found his body two days later by the river. No one talks about it much now, but it was horrible."
Something cold settled in my stomach. The river again. Always the river.
I stared at my plate. I was not hungry anymore. My appetite had vanished, and it had nothing to do with the soup.
"Did they ever find out what happened?" I asked quietly.
Hermione shook her head. "Not properly. There were rumours, not open attacks, nothing public, just the shadow work that happens when a war goes underground. The Aurors did not release much. And Ginny never spoke about it, not to anyone as far as I know."
I swallowed.
"She did not break down," Hermione went on, barely above a whisper. "Not in public, at least. She just shut off. Kept going, as if she did not know how to stop. Played Quidditch, passed her exams, smiled at the right moments. And everyone let her. I think she wanted that too."
"She hides it well," I said, though the words felt thin.
Hermione gave a small, sad smile. "Yes. Most people do not see it any more. She is functioning, but anything beyond that—relationships, feelings, trusting someone again—is different."
She paused, then looked at me with the same thoughtful expression she used when checking footnotes in an essay, only softer.
"Just be careful, Harry. She has been through enough. I know it is not really my place, but I would 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?
Truthfully, I was not sure what I was meant to be careful of. Ginny had not flirted with me. She had not batted her eyelashes or leaned in too close. She had not tossed her hair or smiled in that way some girls do when they are trying to charm someone. She had simply been there, and I had not been able to stop thinking about her since.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of strange staircases and overly enthusiastic portraits, and if anyone had asked, I would have said the day was uneventful. Inside my head it was anything but. I kept drifting back to a pair of brown eyes and that maddening half-smile, the sharpness in her voice, the steadiness of her gaze, and the way she had looked at me as if I were just another student, a person.
That, I think, was the first thing that made her different.
That, and the riverbank.
I kept seeing her there, barefoot, unbothered, untouchable. She had smiled then, but there had been something in her expression I had not yet put words to. It was strange, almost irritating, how clearly I remembered it.
Ginny Weasley.
Now that I knew her name, I could not stop repeating it in my head. It had a rhythm, a weight.
I told myself it was nothing. I was distracted and tired. I had imagined the way her eyes lingered. I was simply unfamiliar with attention from someone like her. None of it helped. The truth was simpler and harder to ignore.
She unnerved me.
There was a quiet strength in her, a resilience I recognised but could not quite match, and I would be lying if I said that did not draw me in. Whatever had happened to her, whatever she was still carrying, I could see it in the way she moved, like someone who had been broken once and stitched herself back together by sheer force of will.
I told myself it did not matter. I was here to learn, to keep my head down, and to train if I needed to. I had made a promise, one I repeated at least five times during Arithmancy, even as the numbers on the board blurred into nonsense.
If I saw Ginny again, I would look away.
If she spoke to me, I would be polite. Brief. Nothing more.
I would not ask questions. I would not linger.
And I definitely would not let her get under my skin.
Of course, even as I said it, I knew the truth.
Somewhere deep down, the part of me that still believed in warnings whispered that I had stepped into something I could not walk away from.
And when the bell rang for afternoon lessons, I realised I was already late for something I did not yet understand. And somehow, I knew it had nothing to do with class.