I woke with a jolt, heart hammering, throat dry, utterly convinced I'd forgotten something monumental.
And I had.
For a heartbeat I thought I'd overslept an entire year, not just a class.
Sunlight streamed across the dormitory floor, catching the mess like a spotlight on my failings. The room was silent and empty. I was alone. The faint sounds of shuffling feet and distant chatter drifted up from the common room below.
I scrambled for my watch, knocking over a stack of textbooks with a loud, flat thud. Ten forty-two.
Brilliant.
Transfiguration would be halfway over, and knowing McGonagall, she'd probably already transfigured half the class into cauldrons by now. I tore through my trunk, yanked on my robes with the grace of a troll, and leapt down the spiral staircase, two at a time, my tie stuffed hastily into my pocket.
There was no point in pretending I could blend in. I pushed open the heavy oak door to the classroom just as Professor McGonagall was scribbling something complex and, inevitably, terrifying. Her hand stilled.
She turned slowly. Her spectacles glinted. Her lips drawn in a tight, unforgiving line.
"Mr Potter," she said, in a tone that could have sent Inferi packing. "How gracious of you to join us. Do, please, take a seat—though I daresay the morning's lesson has already been and gone without you."
The silence was deafening. I muttered an apology and slid into the nearest empty chair, feeling every pair of eyes in the room drill holes into the back of my neck. My ears were burning.
I didn't absorb much of the lesson after that. Something about animated-to-inanimate transitions. A few flicks of wands. Justin Finch-Fletchley accidentally gave his textbook legs. McGonagall barely flinched.
When the bell rang, I was out of my seat in a flash, ducking my head and slipping into the corridor before the rest of the class could catch up. I didn't get far.
"Harry!"
Hermione was running towards me, her arms folded, one eyebrow raised in a familiar mixture of concern and exasperation. She fell into step beside me as we walked.
"You missed rather a lot," she said, not unkindly. "We covered the basics of spell reversal and how animated objects retain residual energy. You'll need to practise this evening, or you'll fall behind. McGonagall seemed thoroughly unimpressed."
Trust Hermione to make oversleeping sound like a moral failure.
"Yeah, I noticed," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "Didn't mean to sleep through it. Just… overslept."
Hermione's gaze softened slightly, but she didn't pry. "Well, you'll catch up. I'll help if you want."
She always spoke like the world made sense if you only organised it properly. I envied that more than I'd ever admit.
"Thanks," I said. I meant it.
She turned a corner with purpose, as though determined to shift topics. "There's also something new on the Gryffindor House noticeboard," she added, voice lifting slightly. "You probably didn't see it last night—you vanished before supper, didn't you?"
I shrugged. "Was tired."
"Well," she said, a little too casually, "they've announced a Promenade Dance."
"A what?" I asked, blinking.
"You know. A formal dance. In February. Valentine's theme, obviously," she said, eyes gleaming with the sort of excitement usually reserved for Arithmancy breakthroughs. "But not tacky. Proper dress robes, proper dates. A real event."
I stared at her. "Hermione, it's September."
She huffed. "Yes, but these things require a great deal of planning. People have already started talking about it. Some students even invite people from other schools."
"Isn't that a bit much?" I muttered. "It's five months away."
Hermione looked at me as though I'd told her I'd never heard of Butterbeer. "Harry, it's tradition."
"To whom?"
She gave me a look. "To everyone. There's music. Dancing. Dress robes. You make a night of it. It's practically a rehearsal for your wedding, isn't it?"
That stopped me short. I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "What, Hogwarts policy now? Learn how to hex, learn how to apparate, learn how to waltz into matrimony?"
She rolled her eyes. "Don't be so cynical. It's a chance to do something… normal. Fun."
Normal. The word sounded foreign. Outside these walls, people were still counting the missing. But here, they were planning dances and pretending everything was fine. Maybe that was what survival looked like now.
"Still," I said, "suppose you're going, then?"
Hermione gave me a sidelong glance and shrugged. "Might. If someone asks."
Something in her tone made me wonder if she'd already imagined the evening: me invisible in the corner, her shining somewhere else.
I opened my mouth to ask if she'd already had offers, but I wasn't entirely sure why I wanted to know, so I kept quiet.
Instead, I let my thoughts drift. The very idea of the dance made me uneasy. I could already hear Remus in my head, scoffing at the frivolity and frowning over the sheer fuss of it all. He hated crowds. Loathed small talk. He'd probably vanish into his quarters the moment someone mentioned it.
And yet…
Some part of me was curious. Not about the dancing or the music. But about who might go. And who might be asked.
"Anyway," Hermione said, cutting through my thoughts with a nudge, "you'll need to give it some thought. Even if you're not planning to go, someone might ask you."
That thought hadn't occurred to me. I shot a sideways glance at her.
She gave me a small, knowing smile.
"Highly unlikely," I muttered.
"You'd be surprised."
I wasn't so sure.
Still, Hermione wasn't quite finished with the subject.
"Have you thought about who you might ask?" she pressed, her voice only just managing to sound casual. There was a certain brightness in her eyes, though—the one that usually meant she'd already spent a good half-hour sorting people into theoretical pairings and was now testing whether I'd land in the one she liked best.
I made a vague noise of indifference, rolling a shoulder, trying to act as if it hadn't occurred to me at all. "Not really."
Hermione gave me a very knowing look and folded her arms. "Well, you've got time. And options. You might want to start thinking about it, though. People are already asking around. Parvati reckons Neville's going to ask Luna, and apparently Terry Boot's trying to weasel his way back in with Lisa Turpin."
That meant absolutely nothing to me.
I shrugged again. "Right."
Not to be deterred, Hermione tilted her head slightly, that glint still dancing in her eyes. "What about Ginny?"
Something in the name tugged at me—not memory, exactly, but recognition I couldn't place. It was as if the air shifted for a heartbeat. I told myself it was nothing.
I didn't say anything at first. Too quick a reaction would be too obvious. Too slow would be worse.
So I settled for, "What about her?"
"Come on, Harry," Hermione said with a little huff. "You've been looking at her every time we're in the same room. And don't bother denying it."
"You told me yesterday she was complicated and to leave her alone. What changed now? Besides, I wasn't going to."
Which was, admittedly, the worst possible thing to say. Hermione's eyebrows climbed high on her forehead.
"Well," she said, a little too brightly, "just don't leave it too long. You'll only get beaten to it."
I changed tack quickly. "What about you? Anyone you're thinking of going with?"
Hermione went visibly pink. Her hand flew to her hair, twisting a strand around her fingers with the sort of nervous energy that said yes, though she clearly didn't want to admit it. She leaned in slightly and lowered her voice to a whisper, as though we were sharing Ministry secrets.
"Parvati told Lavender that she overheard Seamus telling Dean that Ron Weasley is thinking of asking me."
"Oh," I said, trying to sound appropriately interested, though I could barely keep track of who was telling whom which piece of gossip. "Right. Wow."
She let out a muffled sort of squeal and shook her head rapidly, as if trying to physically rid herself of the emotion.
"Don't tell anyone. I mean it. I'll hex you if you breathe a word. I don't want to jinx it."
"I won't," I said, hands raised. "Promise."
She beamed at me, and for a brief second I forgot how much I didn't care about dances. The look on her face was enough to make the idea feel almost… decent. Not that I'd admit it out loud. Still, there was something strange about how easily everyone planned for things like this. As if the world hadn't nearly forgotten itself.
The corridor around us was beginning to fill again, with students brushing past on their way to late-morning lessons, conversations rising and falling in waves. I should've been thinking about my next class or how I hadn't done the homework for it, but instead, my thoughts slid away from Hermione and drifted back to the image that had slowly taken root in my mind since yesterday.
Ginny Weasley.
I hadn't seen her since breakfast, and it was probably for the best. She had a way of completely derailing my ability to think straight.
I tried to shove the thought aside as Hermione started discussing dress robes. Something about whether emerald green was too bold or whether black was too boring. I murmured in the right places and nodded occasionally, but my mind wasn't really in the conversation.
Five months. The dance was ages away. Anything could happen in five months. Especially in a world that pretended peace was permanent.
But I had the uneasy feeling that February would arrive long before I was ready for it.
Hermione double-checked my schedule against hers and sighed heavily. "Muggle Studies for me," she said, tucking a book into her bag. "You've got Divination next."
"We'll meet up at lunch?"
"Of course. And do try not to be late again."
She gave me a brief but firm smile before disappearing into the crowd, her bag bouncing against her hip as she walked off with purpose.
I turned the opposite way and then cursed under my breath as I remembered I'd left my Divination book upstairs.
The Gryffindor common room was blissfully quiet when I returned, with a few students lounging near the fire or flipping through notes, but no one paid me any real attention. I darted up to the boys' dormitory, grabbed the textbook from where I'd left it on the bed, and made my way back down.
And that's when I saw her.
Ginny Weasley.
She was standing by the hearth, one foot propped on the edge of the armchair, the sleeve of her robe pushed up as she adjusted the strap on her elbow guard. She was in full Gryffindor Quidditch kit: crimson robes trimmed with gold, snug and worn in a way that spoke of countless practices and more than a few spectacular falls. Her captain's badge was pinned just above her heart, glinting in the firelight.
She looked like movement caught mid-flame, alive in a way the rest of the room hadn't remembered how to be.
She caught sight of me before I could pretend I hadn't noticed her. That same half-smile flickered across her face again, the same one I remembered from our first encounter. Only this time, it wasn't laced with uncertainty or hesitation. There was something sharper in it.
"All right?" she said softly, amusement threading through it. "We meet again."
I froze mid-step. Blinked once, then again.
"Hi," I replied—if you could call it that. The word stumbled out in a rush, awkward and scratchy, as though my throat had only just remembered how speaking worked. Bloody brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
She took a slow step forward, and now she was standing close enough that I could actually make out the proper colour of her eyes. They were brown, but not plain brown. There were flickers in them: warm streaks of gold and something brighter, almost coppery, that caught the firelight in a way that felt wholly unfair. Distracting, even.
Every rational thought evacuated my skull, leaving behind one loud, unhelpful heartbeat.
"I didn't get the chance to ask yesterday," she went on, brushing a loose strand of hair back into her ponytail, casual as anything. "Are you new? Everything was chaos, wasn't it?"
I nodded, probably too quickly. Words failed me entirely, so I glanced down instead at my shoes, for some reason. They weren't interesting. The left lace had come undone. Marvellous.
But looking down had been a mistake. Because when I glanced up again—hesitantly, foolishly—our eyes met.
And there it was. That sickening lurch in my stomach, the kind you only get when you're falling before you're ready. Like being knocked off your broom mid-flight without warning. No time to steady yourself. No time to think.
Ginny didn't seem bothered by my complete inability to form coherent thoughts. If anything, she looked vaguely entertained.
"Someone told me you lived abroad?" she said, head tilting slightly as that familiar dimple crept into her left cheek. "Bit of a mystery, aren't you? All shadows and silence." She grinned, eyes gleaming. "What's a well-travelled lad like you doing at Hogwarts?"
The words hit harder than she meant them to. Shadows and silence—that was all I'd ever been allowed to be.
I cleared my throat. "I came with Remus," I said. It wasn't a secret that he was my guardian; Dumbledore had seen to that. But the words felt strange leaving my mouth. Safe, maybe, but still something I wasn't used to sharing.
"Oh," she said, nodding as though that explained a great many things. "Yeah, I've seen him about. He's hard to miss."
She hesitated then, her gaze lingering just a beat too long before she added, with a small shrug and a half-smile, "So are you."
The words lingered, unsettling and kind all at once. As if she'd seen something no one else could.
My face. My whole face—burning. I could feel the heat climbing from my neck all the way to the roots of my hair. I made the fatal mistake of stepping backwards and nearly dropped the book I was still holding in one hand.
"I—I should go," I said, far too loudly. "I'm going to be late for Divination."
She didn't move. Just raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying herself.
"You're heading the wrong way," she called lightly.
I didn't stop. Didn't wave. I think I might've managed a vague nod, but I couldn't be sure. My legs were already moving, and my head was ringing with the sound of her voice.
So are you.
It echoed inside me all the way up the corridor and around the next staircase. Merlin's beard, help me. Maybe that was what scared me most—being seen, even for a moment, by someone who wasn't supposed to remember me.
It took longer than it should have to find the Divination classroom, mostly because I was walking faster than I was thinking, and the North Tower was never exactly straightforward on the best of days. I must've climbed at least three spiral staircases before I spotted Professor Trelawney herself emerging from one of the side corridors—shawls trailing behind her, her perfume thick and flowery and impossible to avoid.
She paused when she saw me and peered at me as though I'd just stepped through a secret portal. Her eyes, already magnified by her massive glasses, widened even more.
"Ah… the transfer student," Professor Trelawney breathed, her voice rising with theatrical flourish as she folded her long, ring-heavy fingers together. "I sensed… an unfamiliar energy this morning. Something elusive… shrouded in mystery. A boy who has walked between shadows…"
I blinked, forcing down a sigh. "Er… right," I muttered, already regretting not having feigned illness to try to skip the class altogether.
She swept past me without waiting for a reply, her many shawls billowing behind her as if a breeze had followed her in. She reached the front of the classroom and, with all the self-importance of a queen taking her throne, draped her shawl across the nearest table before sinking into her high-backed chair.
The classroom was already nearly full, heavy with the concoction of scented smoke and oppressive warmth. Incense curled lazily through the air, and the faint reddish glow of low-hung lanterns cast dancing shadows on the tented ceiling.
I couldn't concentrate. My thoughts kept veering off-course, away from the lesson, away from the vague scent of lavender and rosemary that clung to Trelawney's shawls, and straight back to Ginny.
Her voice still echoed in my head, far louder than it had any right to. So are you.
It wasn't just distraction—it was discomfort too. Being seen, even for a moment, felt risky. Dangerous. I wasn't used to it.
I'd replayed it over and over since leaving the common room: her voice, her smile, and the spark in her eyes when she'd said it. I couldn't tell if she was teasing or serious, or both. And for the life of me, I didn't know which possibility made my heart beat faster.
"Ah, such fascinating energies today," Professor Trelawney was saying. "A delightful mix of sixth and seventh-year auras—all swirling together, creating… destiny's tapestry!"
I wasn't sure what that meant, but it probably explained why some of them didn't look old enough to be in seventh year.
I scanned the classroom quickly, looking for an empty seat—anywhere I could keep my head down, finish the hour, and get out without making a bigger fool of myself.
And then I saw her.
Of course.
Ginny Weasley.
She was already seated near the windows, where the filtered autumn light spilt through the hazy glass and caught the red in her hair. She was leaning back with the sort of ease that made it look like she didn't have a care in the world, elbow resting on the desk, her chin balanced in her palm. Her hair had mostly escaped the ponytail now, falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Her Quidditch uniform was rumpled, and there was a faint smudge of mud on one of her sleeves.
She looked like she belonged there, utterly and entirely.
And then she looked up.
Our eyes met. For a second, maybe two. Her lips twitched, the beginnings of a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth; faint, knowing.
Almost… triumphant.
My heart gave a traitorous lurch, but I forced myself forward. She was just a girl. Just another student. Just Ginny Weasley.
That's what I told myself, anyway.
The only empty chair, naturally, was beside her. Fate, or Trelawney's twisted sense of humour.
I sat down without a word, trying very hard not to notice how the faint scent of wind and broom polish clung to her uniform or how her fingers tapped idly on the edge of the table. I didn't look at her. I didn't dare. I could feel the smirk still playing at her lips even without seeing it.
Instead, I forced my attention to the blackboard, where Professor Trelawney had scribbled her elaborate handwriting:
Page 96: Palmistry — Lines of the Hand and What They Reveal
Palmistry. Fantastic.
Trust my luck: the one subject built on uncovering what I'd spent years learning to hide.
I opened the textbook with a bit more force than necessary and found the page, pretending to read. The words blurred. I blinked and tried again.
And then, through the heavy air, her voice rang out, high, lilting, unmistakable.
"Mr Potter."
I jerked slightly, my heart skipping.
"Yes, Professor?"
Trelawney had drifted forward again, looming in that way only she could manage: part ghost, part overgrown insect, all chiffon. She hovered just ahead of her desk, eyes wide behind her magnified glasses, her arms clasped in front of her like some great oracle awaiting prophecy.
"Since you are new," she intoned, "perhaps you would do us the honour of reading today's passage aloud?"
I swallowed hard. Nodded. "Alright."
"And perhaps," she added, tilting her head, "you might share with us your interpretation. Page ninety-six, if you please."
Ginny shifted slightly beside me, and out of the corner of my eye I saw her fold her arms, clearly settling in to be entertained.
I cleared my throat, trying to ignore the sudden dryness there, and began reading.
"Palmistry is the ancient art of reading the human hand. The lines that traverse one's palm—the life line, heart line, head line, and fate line—are said to reveal truths about a person's emotional state, lifespan, and destiny. The presence, absence, or depth of these lines may offer glimpses into future struggles or triumphs. A long life line suggests vitality, while a forked heart line may signify emotional conflict… or romantic turmoil…"
The words trailed off slightly on the last line. I felt Ginny shift again next to me. I didn't dare look at her.
The universe clearly had a sense of humour—mine, specifically.
There was a small, pregnant pause before Trelawney exhaled—a long, theatrical sigh.
"Yes… fascinating, isn't it?" she murmured. "The secrets our very flesh holds. So much is written on us already, if only we knew how to see."
She turned to face me directly now, her gaze suddenly sharp despite the foggy lenses. "And what, Mr Potter, does that passage mean to you?"
I hesitated. Part of me wanted to shrug. Another part, the larger part, was painfully aware of the girl sitting beside me.
"I suppose…" I began, slowly, "it's saying that we're carrying signs of what's coming. That maybe… our paths are already set, even if we haven't noticed."
There was a brief hush. Then, from behind the thick rims of her glasses, Trelawney's eyes lit with something between pride and foreboding.
"Very good," she said. "And do you believe it?"
I could feel Ginny watching me again.
I paused, then said carefully, "I think… Sometimes people want to believe in something so much, they start seeing meaning where there isn't any."
The room was quiet. It hung there, a strange sort of stillness, as though even the incense had stilled mid-air.
Trelawney didn't blink. Her lips parted just slightly. "Hmm," she said finally. "How very pragmatic of you, Mr Potter. But remember… Even the most rational minds may find themselves turned by the unseen. The future does not always wait for belief."
She turned away then, her shawls rustling softly as she glided toward the next row of students, lost in whatever private vision she was already spinning.
The room returned to its low murmur.
I shifted lower in my seat, dragging my eyes away from the textbook and fixing them determinedly on a speck of dust floating. After a moment, curiosity won out, and I risked a sideways glance at Ginny.
She was smiling again, but it wasn't the cheeky, smug smile from earlier. This one was quieter. There was a stillness to it, thoughtful, almost—like she was weighing something up inside her head and hadn't quite decided whether to say it aloud.
"Romantic turmoil, then?" She murmured under her breath, her voice pitched just low enough that no one else could hear.
I didn't turn my head. Just stared straight ahead, pretending to study the chalkboard. "It's just a book," I said flatly.
She made a soft humming sound, flipping a page in her own textbook with deliberate slowness. "Mmm. I'm sure."
I didn't reply. I didn't trust myself to. My brain felt a few seconds behind everything, as though it hadn't caught up from the moment she'd looked at me with that unreadable expression.
The rest of the lesson drifted by in a sort of haze, not entirely thanks to Professor Trelawney's ever-burning incense burners, which were currently producing enough smoke to make my eyes water, but more because my thoughts refused to stay tethered to anything sensible. Every now and then I'd catch the scent of Ginny's shampoo, or maybe it was just her, and forget entirely what we were supposed to be learning.
Trelawney was gliding between the tables now, voice soft and dreamy as she addressed the class.
"Now, my dear ones… We shall begin our first practical of the term. You must pair off. Grasp your partner's hand. Examine the lines carefully. The truth is written there, waiting to be discovered…"
There was a scuffling of chairs and rustling of parchment as everyone turned to their neighbours.
Before I'd even moved, Ginny had already extended her hand across the table, palm up. Her fingers were open in invitation; steady, relaxed. Her eyebrows lifted.
"Go on, then," she said simply, as though daring me. "Get on with it."
I stared at it. Her hand was slender, warm, and freckled from the summer sun. A few calluses marked the base of her fingers—Quidditch, no doubt—and her nails were short and neat.
I hesitated. It wasn't the hand itself. It was what it meant—to take it. To look. To read her, in some way.
"It won't bite," she added, her lips quirking into the faintest smirk. "No need to look so glum."
I gave in, slowly reaching out. The moment our hands touched, my pulse stumbled. Her skin was warm and steady. It shouldn't have felt like much, and yet, somehow, it did.
I cleared my throat, tore my eyes from our joined hands, and glanced at the diagram in the book. It might as well have been in Gobbledegook. None of the lines made sense, and I was fairly certain my brain had taken the rest of the period off.
"Right," I said, feigning a confidence I didn't feel. "This one… that's your Life Line, I think. It's long. Which probably means, er… long life."
Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Probably?"
"Well, it's not exactly guaranteed, is it? No one's handing out certificates."
She gave a quiet laugh. "Go on."
I tried to focus. My finger hovered over her palm. "Your Heart Line…" I said, more cautiously now, tracing it lightly. It curved upward, running toward her index finger. "That's meant to mean… you're expressive. Open with your feelings. Affectionate. Maybe even a bit… passionate."
Her eyes lifted to meet mine then. "Maybe?" she echoed, voice soft.
I felt my ears go hot. "Look, I'm just reading what it says. Don't hold me responsible for the translation."
I pulled my hand back a bit too fast, as though the contact had stung. I busied myself flipping pages, pretending I was suddenly fascinated by the fine art of interpreting thumb mounds.
But Ginny wasn't finished.
"My turn," she said lightly, before I could object. Her fingers closed around my hand and turned it gently palm-up.
She didn't hesitate. Her touch was sure but not rough.
"Your Head Line's strong," she murmured, almost absent-mindedly, tracing the centre of my palm. "Means you're clever. Thoughtful. Bit too serious, probably."
I gave her a dry look. "You got all that from one line?"
She didn't even blink. "It's in the book," she said innocently, though the corner of her mouth twitched.
Her thumb moved lower. "This one's your Fate Line," she said after a pause. "It's deep. Really deep. That means your life's… shaped by outside forces. Not always your own choices."
I almost laughed—if she only knew how literal that was. I hadn't meant to react, but I did. Her fingers stilled.
"It doesn't always mean something bad," she added quickly, softer now. "Just that the world around you… has a louder say than most people's."
I didn't speak. My throat felt too tight for words. She wasn't wrong. That line on my palm might as well have been the story of my life, carved by other people's choices, rewritten by the charm that had stolen my name and left the rest of me behind.
Trelawney's voice cut through the classroom then, floating over the murmurs like the ring of a wind chime. "Now, now! Focus, all of you. The lines speak only to those who truly listen."
Ginny released my hand and leaned back in her chair.
"You've got a complicated palm," she said quietly, eyes fixed on me now. "Not easy to read."
I opened my mouth to answer, but something in her expression stopped me. She wasn't teasing. Not this time. There was something gentle there. Like she saw more than I was letting on.
And then the bell rang.
The soft chime echoed through the room, signalling the end of the lesson. Chairs scraped. Books snapped shut. A low tide of chatter began to roll across the class as students rose to gather their things.
Ginny stood first, slinging her bag over one shoulder.
"Divination's always good for a laugh," she said breezily, her usual tone returning. The mischief was back in her voice, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "See you around, then—mystery boy."
And just like that, she was gone, vanishing into the corridor in a swirl of red hair and careless confidence.
I remained where I was for a few moments longer, staring down at the lines etched into my palm. My hand still felt the shape of hers long after she'd gone.
Complicated.
Yeah. That sounded about right, especially for someone who wasn't supposed to exist.
Hermione spotted me the moment I stepped out of the Divination staircase, her head swivelling in that unmistakably purposeful way of hers, eyes narrowing like she'd just located a missing page in one of her study planners.
"There you are," she said, relief flickering behind the usual bossiness. She'd probably been circling the corridor for ages, knowing I'd lose track of time again. "I've been waiting ages. Come on, we're going down to the Great Hall. I'm absolutely famished."
I fell into step beside her, still feeling a little disoriented; whether from the incense or the strange thrum that lingered in my chest after that lesson, I wasn't sure. The conversation I'd had with Ginny was still circling in my head, stubborn as a Snitch that refused to be caught.
Hermione was already talking again, brisk and efficient as always, filling the corridor with the rhythm of her voice. It felt oddly grounding.
"Oh—and I nearly forgot," she said, glancing sideways at me as we made our way past a huddle of Third Years arguing over Chocolate Frog cards. "Hogsmeade this weekend. You're coming with me."
I blinked at her. "Hogsmeade?"
"Yes, Harry," she said, a touch theatrically. "You do know the village with all the shops? Butterbeer? Zonko's? An actual high street?"
"I know what Hogsmeade is," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "I just didn't realise I was already on the invite list."
Hermione gave me a flat look. "You are now. Honestly, you've been with Professor Lupin every spare minute since you got here. You need a break."
"He just worries if I vanish for too long," I muttered, though she wasn't wrong. I didn't add that he had every reason to. Secrets didn't keep themselves. "Anyway, I should probably check with him first."
She shrugged. "Tell him he's welcome to join us if he can tear himself away from his marking. Though I doubt Professor Lupin spends his Saturdays queueing for Honeydukes."
That made me smile this time. "No… probably not his thing."
We reached the Entrance Hall and joined the flow of students making their way into lunch. The Great Hall was already alive with the swell of chatter and the clinking of cutlery against plates. The sound filled the space so completely it almost pressed against my ears. Warmth poured out from the enchanted ceiling overhead, casting gentle light across the house tables.
Hermione tugged at my sleeve, gesturing toward Gryffindor. "Come on. I need food before I start hexing people."
I was halfway to following her when my eyes landed on Ginny.
She was about halfway down the bench, wedged between two of the Gryffindor Chasers, laughing at something one of them had just said. Her posture was relaxed, shoulders swaying slightly with the rhythm of her laughter, and she was holding a pumpkin pasty in one hand as if she'd forgotten it was there. Her hair was pulled back in a loose tie, but several strands had slipped free and caught the afternoon sunlight. For a second, it almost glowed.
It struck me again how ordinary it all looked. How far it was from anything I'd known.
And then she turned and saw me.
Our eyes met, and I froze.
The sounds of the hall faded to a dull murmur, and the warmth in my chest twisted into something sharper, something I couldn't name. I didn't look away this time. I didn't even think to.
She didn't look away either.
Her expression didn't change, not at first. But there was something in her gaze that unsettled me—a steadiness that felt too close to recognition. Then, gradually, her lips curved into a smile. It reached her eyes, and it was meant for me.
Something in my chest plunged.
Not in a bad way. Just in the way that told me, without needing to analyse it, that this moment—this exact look—had lodged itself somewhere deep, somewhere it wasn't going to be easily shaken free from.
And then Hermione nudged me.
"Harry," she said, slightly pointed. "You all right?"
I blinked, snapping out of it. "Yeah," I said quickly. "Fine."
She gave me that look when she knew I was lying but hadn't yet decided to press the issue. "You've got that face on."
"What face?"
"The same one Ron gets whenever he sees food."
I huffed a short laugh, trying for nonchalance. "It's nothing. I'm just hungry."
Hermione didn't look convinced when she glanced at Ginny, but thankfully, she let it go and led us to a spot at the far end of the Gryffindor table. I sat down, forced myself to pile food onto a plate, and tried to act normal. Like I hadn't just stumbled into something that would make keeping a low profile impossible, something that might undo every careful piece of the life Remus and I had built.
The memory of her smile was still playing in my head, clear and certain as if it had been cast there by magic.
And part of me, one I wasn't quite ready to admit out loud, didn't want it to fade. Not when being seen, even for a moment, felt like remembering who I was.
Hermione hadn't missed it, not that I'd been terribly subtle. It was written all over me, apparently. The lingering glances, the way I seemed to tune out mid-conversation whenever a certain redhead walked past. And Hermione decided to address it with all the tact of a Bludger to the ribs.
"I'm not sure she's your type," she said, her tone careful but laced with that unmistakable note of warning as she reached across the table for a ladle of gravy and then began arranging slices of roast chicken on her plate with infuriating precision. "Ginny, I mean."
I blinked. For a moment, I hadn't registered she was speaking to me at all. My mind had been elsewhere, still echoing with the sound of Ginny's laugh from earlier that afternoon, still haunted by the memory of her hand in mine during Divination.
"Sorry—who?" I asked, not quite convincingly.
Hermione gave me a look. One eyebrow arched in mild disbelief, curls bouncing slightly as she tilted her head. "Don't insult my intelligence, Harry."
I attempted a shrug, though I had the sinking feeling it looked more guilty than nonchalant.
"Ginny Weasley," she said plainly. "Quit looking at her. Honestly, you nearly walked straight into a suit of armour yesterday outside the Charms corridor."
I tried not to smile. I really did. "That only happened once."
Hermione folded her arms. "And twice during our free period, and again this morning. Don't think I haven't noticed."
I picked up a fork and stabbed absently at the potatoes on my plate. My appetite had waned somewhat. "Right."
"I'm just saying," she continued, with the kind of measured tone that meant she'd rehearsed this in her head, "you might want to think twice. She's… not who you think she is."
I looked up at her then. "Meaning?"
Hermione gave a little sigh through her nose, as though she hadn't wanted to be the one to say this, but someone had to. "She's well-liked," she began carefully, "but she's trouble. People talk, you know. She keeps people guessing. I've heard she doesn't exactly make things easy, for herself or anyone else. Ask around. The boys who go after her don't exactly come away smiling."
Funny how warning me only made me want to understand her more.
"Trouble?" I echoed, frowning. "She doesn't seem deliberately cruel."
Hermione paused, fiddling with the edge of her napkin. "I didn't say she was cruel. Just… inconsistent. One minute she's laughing with you; the next she's off pretending it never happened. And she's turned down practically everyone who's tried. Dean Thomas, for starters—Ron says it was awkward for ages after that."
I nodded slowly, though something about the way she said it didn't sit right. "So what? She says no, and suddenly she's the villain?"
"She leads them on," Hermione said, her voice a touch sharper now. "She doesn't mean to, I think. She just… keeps people at arm's length. Starts to let them in, then panics. It's not exactly kind, but I can understand it."
I leaned back slightly. "Are you saying she misleads people on purpose?"
Hermione hesitated, her lips pressing into a line. "No. Not on purpose, maybe. But it still happens."
I stared at my plate, trying to process the tangled thing she was trying to tell me.
"Maybe she's just… waiting for the right person," I said quietly. "Someone who doesn't make everything worse."
Hermione's eyebrows lifted. "And you think that's you?"
The question hit harder than it should have. Not because of the tone—it wasn't mocking, exactly—but because I wasn't sure how to answer. I didn't know if I was worth Ginny's time. I didn't even know if I was supposed to be thinking about things like this. With everything else going on—school, the mission, the secrets—I barely had time to breathe. And yet, there she was. Always just at the edge of things. Impossible to ignore.
"She's still hung up on Michael, you know," Hermione added, more softly now. "She won't admit it, but… well, you don't spend months with someone and just forget overnight."
That surprised me. "You think that's what this is about?"
"I think," she said, quietly but firmly, "that she's not ready for anything real. Not yet. And I don't want to see you get hurt."
There it was, the real reason. It wasn't just gossip or judgement. It was a concern. Protective, maybe overbearing at times, but genuine all the same. I knew Hermione was speaking from the heart.
"Right," I said at last. "Thanks. I'll bear that in mind."
She seemed to accept that, nodding slightly. Then, as if to clear the air, she gave a sudden, exaggerated groan and dropped her fork with a dramatic clatter. "Honestly. Enough about Miss Weasley. I really hope you're coming to Hogsmeade this weekend. I need a break. You need a break. We all need a break."
I let out a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. "Yeah… sounds good."
Hermione grinned and nudged my elbow. "Brilliant. We'll drink too much Butterbeer, browse a few shops, maybe even hex Pansy Parkinson if we're feeling ambitious."
I laughed, though the noise felt a little hollow. Across the Great Hall, Ginny was chatting to Katie Bell, her hands animated as she spoke, her hair tumbling over one shoulder in a way that seemed completely effortless.
I looked away before she could catch me.
But the image stayed with me anyway. The kind that settles in before you realise it's too late.
Some stories start quietly, right before everything else unravels.