By the end of the last class, my legs barely remembered how to move. It wasn't ordinary tiredness either; it was the kind that sank deeper, the kind that came from a full day of pretending I belonged somewhere I wasn't sure I did.
Arithmancy had been a blur of numbers and symbols, punctuated by Hermione's soft but relentless whispering beside me. My head still throbbed from it all: the calculations, the stares, the noise. Anyone watching me might've mistaken me for a first-year who'd stumbled into the wrong timetable. I scooped my books together with more determination than coordination, shoved them into my satchel, and made for the door before my brain could protest. The corridors beyond were crowded, full of voices and laughter and people who looked as though they'd been born knowing where they were going.
I ducked and weaved through the press of students, brushing against shoulders, catching half-heard conversations about Quidditch scores and Hogsmeade weekends. Each accidental bump felt like a reminder: you don't belong here. For a single day, I'd been nudged, questioned, and quietly examined from every angle. They hadn't meant harm, but curiosity could sting just as much as cruelty. By the time I reached the entrance hall, I felt scraped raw, like a Chocolate Frog that had been dropped too many times but still tried to hold its shape.
And yet, I'd made it. No cauldrons blown apart, no portraits set on fire, no public humiliation to send me running back to Remus before sundown. That alone counted as a victory in my book. Survival shouldn't have felt like triumph, but it did. And I let myself have that, just for a moment.
I pushed through the castle doors, and the afternoon air hit me like a cleansing charm: cool, sharp, and full of the scent of grass and far-off flowers. I didn't stop until the steps gave way to open ground. Then I slowed, chest heaving, satchel slipping against my shoulder as the last of the day's noise faded behind me.
The grounds were nearly empty. A few voices drifted from the Quidditch pitch in the distance, a flash of broomsticks against the sky; further off, the lake shimmered darkly, and the forest loomed like a warning. I drifted towards its edge, stopping beneath a tree that looked as old as the castle itself. The bark was rough beneath my palms, solid and grounding. I leaned back until I felt its weight against mine, as if the tree might hold me up if I couldn't quite manage it myself.
For a while, I just stood there, eyes half-shut, breathing in the quiet. The wind stirred the branches, carrying faint traces of laughter from the castle—a sound that already felt a world away. Slowly, the ache in my shoulders began to ease, the tightness in my chest loosening by degrees. Out here, beyond the eyes and questions, it felt almost possible to breathe properly.
I let my gaze follow the sunlight as it shifted through the leaves, golden and brief, and allowed myself to stop thinking, to simply exist. For the first time since arriving, stillness felt like an achievement. For one afternoon, surviving Hogwarts was enough.
I spotted Remus descending the main steps, his stride calm and unhurried, though I could see the fatigue in the way his shoulders carried the day. A few students—mostly girls—trailed behind him at a cautious distance, their whispers just audible above the wind. They weren't subtle about it. Every few steps, one of them would glance up at him and then quickly look away, as if pretending not to stare might make it less obvious.
Remus looked as he always did when he'd been through too much and refused to admit it. His robes were neat, his tie straight, and his hair only slightly mussed, but there was a quiet strain at the corners of his mouth and a small tension in the way he moved. When he caught the group's eyes for the briefest moment, they froze mid-whisper. I saw the faintest flicker of discomfort pass across his face—quick, almost invisible, but there.
He wasn't flattered by attention; he never had been. If anything, it unsettled him. Remus had spent too long being the sort of man people overlooked. All this new notice from students—it wasn't praise he wanted. He just wanted to be left in peace.
When we crossed paths near the edge of the lawn, I gave his arm a light pat, trying for a grin. "Looks like you've drawn some attention already," I said.
He gave me a look that clearly said he'd rather be spending time with the Giant Squid.
Remus's lips twitched—almost a smile—but his eyes carried that same quiet weariness. "I'm not the only one," he said softly. "You've had your fair share of attention too." His voice was calm, but his eyes told another story: part warning, part worry, as if attention itself were a risk neither of us could afford.
I swallowed and let it go. Some things didn't need saying between us. Instead, I started telling him about my day—nearly colliding with moving staircases, being rescued from confusion by Hermione, and trying not to look completely lost in every corridor. I wanted him to know I was managing. Not just surviving, but doing alright.
"And I made a friend today," I said, trying to sound casual, though we both knew what that meant.
Remus turned to me, his expression caught somewhere between concern and amusement. I could see it already, the part where he'd remind me why making connections was dangerous.
"Is there something wrong with that?" I asked before he could speak. "Am I not allowed to have friends?"
He gave a small sigh and ran a hand through his hair, the way he did when he was trying not to argue. "Blending in is fine," he said gently, "but real friendships can be… complicated. Friends want to know who you are. They'll ask about your past, your family, and why you've never been to another school. Questions you can't always answer honestly."
He met my gaze, the faintest crease forming between his brows. "You can't risk giving away more than the world's meant to remember," he said quietly. "Even a harmless story, told to the wrong person, could reach the wrong ears. And if that happens, everything the Order's done to protect you starts to unravel."
Heat rushed to my face. "I'd never do anything to risk this," I said quickly. "I've spent my whole life pretending I don't exist—don't you think I understand what's at stake?"
His expression flickered—guilt, maybe—and I gave a small, defiant smile. "I'm not stupid, Remus. You don't have to treat me like I am."
Remus's expression softened, the edge of tension easing from his features. "I don't think that, Harry. I trust you," he said quietly. "I just want to spare you complications before they start. That's all."
It always came back to trust. He offered it like a teacher giving out marks—measured, careful, never freely.
I let out a slow breath. "They won't," I said. "I just want to feel normal for a while. That's all."
He reached out and gave my hand a brief, steady squeeze. "We just have to be careful," he said. "You're here to live, yes, but also to learn how to stay alive. The Order's trust in you isn't a burden, Harry. It's what keeps you safe."
I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of that word—safe. For years, safety had meant hiding; now it meant learning how to exist out in the open.
Remus's gaze was steady, patient, and maddeningly calm. He always knew how to make the world stop spinning, and somehow that only made me want to argue. Maybe that was the most normal thing about us, the need to push back, just to prove I could. But I couldn't stay angry with him. Not when I knew what he'd risked just to get me here.
We began walking back towards the castle, the afternoon sun warm against our backs. My heart felt lighter than it had all day, though the thought of Ginny, Hermione, and the impossible puzzle of Hogwarts still stirred somewhere inside me. No matter how much planning Remus did, or how careful I tried to be, I knew nothing about this place—about this life—was going to stay simple for long.
Not long ago, I'd been desperate for the day to end. Now, stepping into Remus's quarters, I found myself oddly uncertain of what to do with the quiet. The room met me with a faintly musty scent: parchment, candle wax, and old wood. Not unpleasant, just lived-in. Still.
The silence wasn't peaceful. It felt heavy, like the castle was still deciding whether I truly belonged.
Remus was already in his armchair by the window, legs tucked beneath him, a thick old book balanced in his lap. His brow furrowed slightly as he read, lips moving every so often as if he were testing the sound of a line under his breath. He looked perfectly at ease; he always did with something ancient and academic in front of him. I, meanwhile, stood there like a guest who'd turned up uninvited and stayed too long.
I drifted about for a bit, poking at the fire even though it didn't need it. I thought about sitting by the window, but the view didn't hold much—just a stretch of dark hills and the faint shimmer of the lake in the distance.
The room wasn't big enough to pace without feeling caged. I tried not to sigh out loud.
With no chess set, no model broomsticks, not even a deck of Exploding Snap cards, I was left alone with my own thoughts, and that was never a quiet place to be.
What were other seventeen-year-olds doing right now? Probably sneaking into the kitchens, sprawled on their dormitory beds, laughing about something stupid one of them had said. Writing rude notes in textbooks. Sharing secrets. Planning normal things: Hogsmeade trips, jokes, lives that actually made sense.
I'd already been given homework in three subjects. I'd written it all down neatly, the way Hermione might approve of, at the bottom of each page in my notebook. Most of the others didn't bother; they just trusted they'd remember or that someone else would shout the reminder later in the common room.
I told myself I ought to be pleased—already standing out as the responsible one, the one who actually cared about lessons.
But the truth was, none of it was hard. Knowing too much made me feel like a fraud, as if I were faking the part of someone clever instead of just playing catch-up with everyone else's normal.
I knew I should get started—get ahead, impress someone—but the thought of it bored me. I could finish everything in under an hour. Maybe half that. I already knew every answer I'd be asked tomorrow. It all felt like pretending. Like going through the motions of a life I wasn't sure I belonged to, waiting for an audience that might never look up.
Still, I couldn't just sit there while Remus read like some academic monk beside me. So I pulled my satchel onto the table and emptied it in what I hoped looked productive. Ink bottle, quill, parchment, Potions text—check.
I sat, quill in hand, and stared at the open page.
The first question, something about Doxy venom, might have stumped someone else. I could've answered it half-asleep. I kept staring anyway, willing myself to write just one line, anything to make it look like progress.
My eyes drifted to Remus.
He hadn't moved, except for a slight furrow deepening between his brows. Whatever he was reading had claimed him completely. I envied that, how he could vanish into a book and forget the rest of the world. I wasn't sure he even remembered I was there.
I looked back at my parchment, tapping the quill against my chin.
I was supposed to be here to blend in, act normal, and do the things students did.
So why did all of it—lessons, conversations, even homework—feel like a performance? Like I was still on the outside looking in, playing at being someone who might've existed if everything had gone differently.
If I had gone differently.
At last, I leaned forward, dipped my quill into the ink, and started to write. My mind, though, wasn't on Doxy venom or reaction speeds. It drifted, inevitably, to the face I couldn't seem to stop seeing.
Ginny Weasley.
I scribbled down the first answer, then sat back, staring at nothing. I should have told Remus, I thought suddenly. Not everything; just mentioned her. But something held me back. Something I couldn't name.
The last of the sunlight slipped behind the trees, and the fire gave a soft hiss as it sank lower in the grate.
I needed to keep my mind busy—anything to stop it circling back to her. To stop thinking about the mess I could already feel myself sliding into.
But everything—every thought, every breath—kept returning to her.
Her name, her voice, the way her eyes had met mine for a fraction too long in the common room—all of it had worked its way into my head without permission. And it wasn't even anything she'd done.
Hermione's warning echoed in my head: I wouldn't go for her if I were you. She's complicated.
Complicated. But then, who here wasn't? Everyone at Hogwarts carried something left over from the war, whether they said so or not.
Besides, it wasn't as if I were planning anything. I wasn't trying to get involved. I'd only just met her. I barely knew anything beyond what Hermione had said, and most of that had been, honestly, grim. But it didn't seem to matter. My mind had already made its choice.
I tried to focus, forced my eyes back to the parchment, but every line blurred into her name.
I let out a sharp breath and pushed the book away. I couldn't do this. Every time I blinked, I saw her eyes again—deep brown, steady, not soft. There was steel there, something unspoken I couldn't name.
And now, thanks to Hermione, there was another ghost in the room.
Michael Corner.
Her boyfriend. The boy who'd died. Sixteen. Hardly more than a kid.
I leaned back, folding my arms, eyes fixed on the fire. What had he been like? Funny? Kind? The sort of boy who sat beside her under trees, making her laugh without meaning to? Had he loved her? Had she known?
A dull ache settled in my chest.
I knew what loss felt like, that strange emptiness where someone used to be. And I knew people didn't always show it. Some laughed louder to hide it. Some carried it like armour, worn behind their eyes for only a few to see.
Ginny had seemed strong. Certain of herself. But that didn't mean she wasn't carrying scars no one could see. Maybe that was why I couldn't stop thinking about her because she looked like someone who'd survived the same kind of storm.
And yet, there'd been something in the way she looked at me. Not recognition, nothing that simple, but something curious. Like she was trying to work me out.
Which was ironic, really, since I hadn't worked that out myself.
I rubbed a hand over my face and sat forward again, forcing myself to read something—anything. I couldn't afford to let this become a problem. Remus had been clear: no distractions, no entanglements, no risks.
But Ginny didn't feel like a risk. She felt like a question I wanted to answer. And maybe that was just as dangerous.
I was still pretending to read when I heard the familiar creak of the chair and Remus's quiet footsteps.
He took one look at me, hunched over a Potions book with the most unconvincing focus imaginable, and raised an eyebrow.
"Hard at work, then?" he asked mildly, setting his book down near the door.
I shut mine with a sigh. "Not really. I've read the same bit about fluxweed five times."
Remus smiled that faint, knowing smile of his. He didn't push. "I was thinking of asking a house-elf to bring dinner—unless you'd rather eat in the Great Hall?"
The thought of going back to that echoing hall full of chatter and curious looks made me wince.
"Here's good," I said quickly. "I've had enough of crowds for one day."
Remus nodded, unsurprised. He went to the fireplace, murmured a brief request, and moments later a house-elf appeared with a soft pop, carrying a tray of food: roast chicken, boiled potatoes, warm rolls, and a jug of pumpkin juice. A second pop brought pudding: treacle tart, my favourite. I raised an eyebrow. Remus smirked, saying nothing.
We settled at the table. It felt strangely domestic—quiet, almost comfortable. The fire crackled behind us, throwing long shadows over the shelves. We ate in easy silence for a while.
Remus leaned back, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "My first proper day teaching in years," he said, almost to himself. "Better than I expected. I hadn't thought so many students would still care about Defence Against the Dark Arts."
I gave him a sideways look. "I reckon half of them only signed up for Defence after seeing you walk in."
He raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
"Well," I said, grinning, "you don't exactly have the Professor Binns look, do you? You actually seem alive."
He chuckled softly. "Let's hope that is enough to keep their attention. Still, if they can find a bit of enthusiasm for Defence, perhaps there is hope they will like the rest of their studies too."
I poked at my potatoes. "Do you ever get bored in class?"
"Of course," he said straight away. "Especially when I was your age. Why?"
"I was bored today," I admitted. "Arithmancy. Definitely not my thing."
He didn't look surprised. "You're not alone. It takes a particular sort of mind for Arithmancy and a tolerance for very dull numbers."
I laughed. "Well, I haven't got either of those."
He leaned back, warming his hands around his mug. "You'll have to find what your thing is, then. Try everything. Keep what fits. Let the rest go."
"That easy, is it?"
"It can be," he said quietly. "If you give yourself room to be curious. That's half the point of school, Harry. Not just learning spells and facts, but learning yourself—what excites you and what doesn't, what you value."
I thought about that. About the pull I'd felt all day, not towards Arithmancy or Ancient Runes or even Potions, but towards something else entirely.
Something, or someone, I wasn't meant to be thinking about.
Remus must have seen the look on my face, because he gave me a narrow glance and said, "Sometimes curiosity leads to things best left alone."
I rolled my eyes. "I'm not stupid."
He made a small sound of agreement and reached for another roll. "I know. But even clever boys can be reckless."
I didn't answer. I just stared at my plate, dragging my fork through the gravy.
Part of me wanted to tell him everything. Not just about Ginny, but about how loud everything had felt today, how fast it all moved, and how easily I'd gone from observer to participant. Even the smallest interaction felt like it could ripple across the surface of the cover I was meant to keep.
But I didn't say any of it. I already knew what he'd tell me: stay focused, don't get attached, remember what this is. It isn't real life—it's the mission.
Only it felt like real life.
I reached for the treacle tart instead and let the question hang, unspoken.
When dinner was over and the fire had burned down to embers, Remus reached for the book he had left earlier. He didn't open it. He only rested it in his lap, looking at the cover without really seeing it. Then his eyes lifted to me instead.
I must have looked a picture of restlessness, elbows on the table and chin in my hand, because he hesitated before saying, in that mild way of his, "How about a walk? Or better yet, fancy a fly?"
My head came up at once. "What, on the Quidditch pitch?"
He smiled, the lines by his eyes softening. "I believe the sky's still open."
I was on my feet before he had finished the sentence.
We crossed the grounds in near silence, the evening air sharp and cool against our faces. Behind us, the castle glowed amber from the windows, warm and far away, like it belonged to another world entirely. Out on the pitch, the school brooms waited in a neat line along the stands. They were old and far from impressive, a few with bristles that looked as if a Hippogriff had chewed them, but I didn't care. I hadn't flown in weeks, maybe longer.
The moment my feet left the ground, something inside me came alive again. For the first time since I'd arrived, I didn't feel like I was pretending to be someone else.
The cold wind tore past, stinging my cheeks, but I laughed as I climbed higher. The broom was slower than what I was used to, but it didn't matter. Up here, with the world dropping away beneath me, I felt weightless.
Below, the pitch blurred into green and shadow. Above, the sky was streaked with the fading colours of sunset—lavender and gold sinking into navy. I could hear the low whistle of Remus's broom somewhere to my right, steady and measured, but he gave me space. He let me fly.
For a while, I simply flew—twisting, curving, pushing the broom as far as it would go. It felt right. Clean. Honest. Mine.
When we finally drifted back to the ground, I felt lighter than I had since setting foot in Hogwarts.
We didn't speak much as we started along the edge of the Black Lake. The wind had picked up, carrying that quiet kind of hush that made the whole place feel sacred. Only the water moved, lapping gently at the shore, and the grass whispered underfoot. The lake caught what little light was left, glinting like dull metal.
A few students still lingered on the lawns, reluctant to let go of the last strands of daylight. Some sat on benches, others gathered under the trees, their voices drifting across the water—soft, indistinct, part of the background.
We had only taken a few steps when a voice rang out across the lawn, high and urgent.
"Harry! Oi, Harry!"
It took me a second to realise she meant me.
Remus stopped dead.
It wasn't the shout that unsettled him. It was the name. Years of hiding had taught us both to treat it like a secret, even if no one else alive remembered what it truly meant.
I turned, half-expecting to find someone else, but no—it was Hermione, waving from a bench near the path. Her hair was a bit wild from the wind, and she was still in her school robes, though her tie hung loose. She looked far too awake for this hour, still buzzing with whatever energy she ran on.
She beckoned me over with both hands.
I glanced at Remus, uncertain. His expression didn't exactly say he was thrilled. I saw the way his shoulders tightened at the sound of my name carrying through the air. It was the kind of attention he hated: public, unpredictable, and impossible to control. The kind he was always trying to keep me safe from.
Still, walking away from Hermione would have been downright rude, and we both knew it.
I cleared my throat. "Er, Remus—this is Hermione. Hermione Granger."
She stood up at once, brushing off her robes. "Lovely to meet you, Professor."
Remus gave her one of his diplomatic smiles, the kind that managed to be both warm and distant. "Miss Granger. A pleasure. Though I'm afraid it's getting late, and we ought to be back in the dormitories before curfew."
He didn't sound harsh, but there was a quiet finality to his tone.
Hermione's expression faltered for a moment before she caught herself and smiled politely. "Of course. I wasn't going to keep you. I just—well, I saw you walking and—never mind."
There was something about her that made me think I might actually have a chance at being known.
"I'm glad you did," I said quickly. "Maybe we could hang out another time?"
Her face brightened. "I'd like that."
Remus gave a small, quiet sigh before turning back towards the castle. I lingered a moment longer, offering Hermione a small, grateful nod.
Then I jogged to catch him up.
Remus made no comment about my new friendship with Hermione as we headed back up to the castle, though I caught him giving me one of his trademark meaningful looks once or twice; subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. I didn't ask what it meant. I was too knackered to read between the lines, and even if I'd had the energy, I doubt I'd have had the patience for it.
The moment we stepped into the Entrance Hall, the warmth hit me. The stone floors, the high archways—it was all still a bit unreal, even now, at the end of the first day. Hogwarts. The name alone used to make something ache in my chest when I read about it. And now I was here. Inside it. Living in it.
I said goodnight to Remus outside the Gryffindor common room and murmured the password he'd told me the night before. The Fat Lady gave me a faintly amused smile, as if she knew I wasn't quite used to any of this yet, then swung open.
The common room was quiet by then, dimly lit and pleasantly warm from the fire still crackling in the grate. A few students murmured in the corners, bent over books or finishing last-minute homework. I didn't stop to chat. I went straight up the spiral staircase to the boys' dormitory, where someone had kindly drawn the curtains round the other beds. I didn't need another round of questions—not tonight.
It was such a simple thing, this room. High ceilings, worn rugs, tall windows looking out over the sleeping grounds of Hogwarts. But the view, even in darkness, stirred something in me: the wide stretch of lawn, the moonlight glinting on the lake, and the faint golden flicker of a hut far off by the forest. It looked peaceful.
I sat on the edge of my bed for a moment, letting that feeling settle. Then I kicked off my shoes, pulled my robes over my head, and slid beneath the covers. The sheets were cool and clean against my skin, and the mattress was firm enough to keep me from sinking.
I lay on my side, knees drawn in slightly, my head sinking into the pillow.
Even with exhaustion pressing in, my thoughts refused to quiet. They tumbled over one another, images and voices colliding as if they hadn't realised the day had ended. Ginny's face surfaced first—uninvited—followed by Hermione's voice, then Remus's warnings, the blur of lessons, and the names I couldn't yet keep straight.
I told myself I'd sort it all out in the morning. Put everything back where it belonged.
But my body had other ideas.
The castle finally went quiet, but my mind didn't. Even as sleep took me, I could still feel it: the beginning of something I wasn't supposed to want.