"The point of us being here isn't to socialise," said Remus quietly.
His tone was mild, but it still made my stomach tighten, the same way it did whenever he reminded me of rules he wished he didn't have to say aloud. He meant it, too. The more people I spent time with, the higher the chance someone might notice what wasn't meant to exist.
I glanced over at him, slouched in the armchair by the hearth, the firelight carving tired shadows across his face. "I think it'd be rude not to go," I said, keeping my voice steady. "It's Saturday. No lessons. I wouldn't exactly call that shirking."
He didn't answer at once, which usually meant he was turning the thought over far more carefully than he let on. Leaning back, he exhaled through his nose; it was the quiet sigh that always came before reluctant permission.
"Go, if you must," he said finally, his tone unreadable. "I'd have thought you could find better uses for your time. Still, it isn't my place to stop you. Just make it a one-off."
"Just this once," I echoed, a bit too quickly. I didn't want to sound rebellious, but I also didn't fancy spending every weekend cooped up like I was thirteen again. "I'm not planning to make a habit of it."
"I should hope not," Remus said, and there was a faint edge in his voice now, though not sharp enough to sting.
He didn't need to say more. The warning was there, quiet but clear, that I was letting things slide, that my priorities were slipping where they shouldn't.
Guilt pricked at me, but I pushed it aside. I only wanted a few hours of normality, just one afternoon that wasn't filled with watchful eyes or quiet judgement. For once, I wanted to be a teenager. One warning from Remus wasn't going to hang over me like a curse.
By half-two I'd showered and dressed, dragging a hand through damp hair and hoping I looked less tired than I felt. The dormitory had been silent when I left. The walk to the common room was oddly grounding for a Saturday afternoon. No bells. No rules. It almost felt normal.
Hermione was already downstairs when I arrived, sitting near the window with a group of seventh-year Gryffindors—Dean, Parvati, Lavender, Seamus, and Neville—all talking over one another.
My stomach sank. I'd thought this was supposed to be just the two of us. She must have mentioned it to the others after breakfast, and somehow the plan had multiplied.
She looked up and stood at once. The sight of her surrounded by them hit harder than I expected. Everyone here already belonged somewhere. Everyone except me.
"Harry! Sorry, slight change of plan."
"A change of plan?" I asked, frowning.
"Hogsmeade will have to wait until next weekend," she said quickly, already crossing the room towards me. And then she lowered her voice when she added, "Filch is on a tear about security checks. We're going to the Room of Requirement instead. He never finds it when the castle doesn't want him to."
"The Room of Requirement?" I repeated, uncertain.
"Yes, come on—it'll make sense when we get there." She grabbed my arm before I could object.
I followed, reluctant, trailing behind as we left through the portrait hole and made our way up the corridors. They were loud, laughing, their voices bouncing off the stone walls. The noise pressed against my skull, and irritation flickered before I could stop it.
By the time we reached the seventh floor, the others were practically buzzing with anticipation. I hung back a few steps, unsure whether I even wanted to be there.
Then, as if summoned by their excitement, a door shimmered into view. It rippled faintly around the edges before solidifying, and it swung open the instant Hermione reached for it.
The sight that met us nearly knocked the breath out of me.
Sound came first, then heat. Light followed last, far too bright to trust.
Music burst from the room—fast, loud, relentless—some enchanted wireless track that rattled the floorboards and thudded in my chest. Dim lights flickered like candlelight caught in a storm, and the air reeked of alcohol, smoke, perfume, and something sharp I couldn't name.
It wasn't a party. It was chaos uncorked.
Crowds had never meant safety for me; they meant not knowing where the next curse might come from, or who might cast it.
I stopped in the doorway.
Students from every House had found their way in and filled every corner—dancing, shouting, drinking, and sprawling across cushions as if nothing outside these walls existed. A few waved when they noticed me; most gave a quick glance, then looked away again.
The heat pressed in at once, making my stomach tighten. I'd expected something casual, a quiet get-together maybe, not a full-blown party that looked like the sort of chaos people only half-remembered the next morning.
I nearly turned back. I could have claimed I'd forgotten an essay or come down with a headache; no one would have questioned it. But something between curiosity and pride kept me rooted. I'd at least apologise to Hermione before slipping out.
The others disappeared into the noise at once. Seamus and Dean went straight for the drinks, while Parvati and Lavender vanished into the crowd. Hermione barely had time to glance back before someone caught her arm, laughing, and dragged her towards the dance floor.
I stayed near the wall, awkward and out of place.
The room blurred with movement. Groups danced in tight clusters, girls shrieked with laughter, and students sprawled across cushions in varying stages of drunkenness. Bottles clinked nearby. Smoke curled lazily along the ceiling. In the far corner, a few couples were tangled together, lost to everything else.
I didn't belong here. Belonging was a language I hadn't yet learned.
Remus's voice echoed in my head, calm but heavy. I'd have thought you could find better uses for your time.
Merlin, he'd lose it if he saw this. I could already picture the furrowed brow, the weary sigh, and the quiet remark I'd never manage to forget.
Still, part of me didn't want to be the awkward one standing on the edge. I was seventeen. This was what people my age were supposed to do.
Just stay long enough to be polite, I told myself. Then go.
Hermione was dancing. She looked genuinely happy, and for a moment I felt a sharp pang I couldn't quite name. She hadn't meant to leave me behind—I knew that—but I wasn't part of this world.
I stayed where I was, half-hidden by the wall, the music pounding around me. It was the loudest silence I'd ever known.
Hermione was talking animatedly with Lavender Brown, her hands cutting through the air as she spoke. Lavender caught sight of me and grinned, a glint in her eyes that suggested she'd found something amusing, though I couldn't think what.
I edged through the crowd, careful not to trip as bodies pressed too close on every side. The room had grown hotter, or maybe I had; sweat clung beneath my collar.
"I can't stay long," I called once I was near enough Hermione, raising my voice over the pulsing music. "I told Remus I'd be in Hogsmeade, so I don't want to push my luck."
Lavender laughed, tossing her hair back. "Professor Lupin isn't here, is he?" she shouted, her grin bright but not warm. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him. Besides, every seventh year needs a proper back-to-school celebration."
Before I could reply, she pressed a drink into my hand.
"Just a quick one!" she said cheerfully, as though that settled the matter.
I opened my mouth to refuse, but she was already downing her own glass with practised ease, eyes glinting like she was daring me to follow. Around us, students laughed and spun under the shifting lights, their shadows sliding over the walls. Someone brushed past and sloshed drink down their arm without noticing.
I looked at the glass in my hand. The liquid was a strange amber, almost glowing, and too thick for comfort. I raised an eyebrow and shouted over the noise, "What is this?"
Lavender didn't answer. She only winked and disappeared into the crowd.
I should have walked out. Who drank this early in the day, anyway?
Instead, out of politeness—or stupidity—I took a cautious sip. The taste hit at once: sickly sweet, sticky, and faintly chemical. Not Firewhisky, not mead. It clung to my tongue like syrup. I grimaced. Whoever brewed it had no business calling it a drink.
I set the glass on a nearby table and wiped my mouth with my sleeve, doing my best not to gag.
Hermione had drifted back to the centre of the dance floor, caught in a blur of seventh-years. Her hair whipped around her as she laughed, spinning under the shifting lights, her face flushed with colour. She looked free. Happy.
Then she vanished. The crowd surged, bodies pressing from every side, and she disappeared among them.
I tried to work my way out, pushing through gaps that closed as soon as they opened. Each step forward vanished beneath the press of people. It was like moving against a current that refused to let me go.
The air thickened with perfume, smoke, sweat, and alcohol. My head throbbed, the music vibrating through my skull. It wasn't only the noise. My hearing had gone strange, the sound bending and echoing inside my head instead of around me.
I glanced down.
My glass was full again. For a second I thought it was one of those enchanted refills, though I was certain I'd left it full on the table a moment ago.
A small ripple ran across the surface, too deliberate to be a trick of the light.
I stared, confused. I hadn't seen anyone refill it. I was sure I'd left it behind. Had I picked up someone else's by mistake?
Without thinking, I lifted it and drank. Just a small sip. Barely enough to taste.
It didn't taste the same. Not even close.
Beneath the sweetness came a metallic tang that caught in my throat and turned my stomach. I coughed once, then again, eyes watering.
I tried to swallow it down, but my mouth was dry. My tongue felt heavy and strange in my own mouth. The lights blurred at the edges, melting together. The floor tilted beneath me, and my knees threatened to give way.
I pressed a hand to my forehead. It came away damp with sweat.
Something churned low in my stomach, slow and sick. My throat tightened. My skin prickled with heat that didn't belong. My limbs felt heavy, as though my body was fighting itself to stay upright.
Someone slammed into my back, sending me stumbling into a group of students.
Their faces swam before me, out of focus.
At first, I thought they were just curious, the way people sometimes were.
But this was different.
Their eyes weren't curious or kind. They were sharp. Cold. Amused.
One of them, a Slytherin maybe, said something to the others, too fast to catch. The words reached me warped, as if from underwater. They were laughing. All of them. Not kindly.
I tried to speak. Tried to move. My legs were heavy as lead. I managed a step, but too slow.
A hand clamped onto my shoulder, heavy and rough.
I turned, unsteady. Another hand came up, holding a glass, and pressed it against my mouth before I could stop it.
I tried to push it away.
"Come on, Potter," someone sneered. "Don't be such a bore."
The rim hit my lips, and a splash of liquid slid into my mouth.
It was foul—bitter, chemical, thick. It burned my tongue and caught in my throat. My body reacted before my mind did. I spat some out, but it was too late. Enough had gone down.
My vision pulsed.
Not dimmed; pulsed, black blooming at the edges with every heartbeat. The floor shifted, or maybe I did. My chest tightened. Breathing grew uneven, as if my lungs had forgotten how.
Cold fear slid through me. I knew how to tell drink from danger; Remus had made sure of it. This wasn't drink. This was wrong. Dangerous.
My heart raced, unsteady, stuttering against my ribs. Heat surged under my skin.
And through the haze, a single thought cut through, sharp and clear.
I've been poisoned.
Poisoned.
Not drunk. Not hexed.
Poisoned.
I knew the signs.
And I hadn't seen who'd done it.
Then, through the chaos, another hand caught mine. Smaller. Steady. Not demanding or rough, only firm and warm. It began to guide me away. I couldn't see who it was at first; my vision still refused to focus. My legs gave way, and I nearly went down, but the grip tightened. An arm came round my back, holding me up. I let it take my weight. There wasn't much else I could do.
Behind me, through the crush of bodies and pounding music, I thought I heard someone mutter—low, sharp, and close.
"That's for what you did," someone snarled, or thought they did. The words twisted through the haze like something remembered by mistake. The voice was too sure. Either someone had slipped the memory charm, or whispers about me had started to spread in places they shouldn't.
My stomach turned, though I couldn't tell if it was from the words, the poison, or both.
The thought flickered and slipped away before I could catch it.
Something gripped my arm—firm, steady, pulling me away from the blur of noise and colour. I didn't know who it was, only that the touch kept me upright when the floor seemed to tilt.
The door disappeared behind us, and the air outside hit me like a draught from the Forbidden Forest. The chill sliced through the heat clinging to my skin, and I shivered hard. Whoever was holding me steered me to a stone bench along the wall and eased me down carefully, as if I were something fragile.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, head hanging low. Sweat ran down my neck, my fringe plastered to my forehead, my shirt sticking to my back. Each breath came shallow and strained. I clenched my teeth, fighting the urge to be sick.
"Harry."
The voice came softly. I blinked, slow and clumsy, and lifted my head.
The face in front of me blurred, then cleared.
Ginny.
She was kneeling in front of me, hair pulled back messily, brow furrowed with focus. Her grey jumper looked too big, sleeves shoved up to her elbows.
It wasn't the worry that caught me; it was the certainty. She didn't look frightened. She looked as if she'd already decided I wasn't going to die while she was here.
She couldn't have known who I really was, but something in her eyes made it feel like she did.
I stared at her, my mind struggling to catch up.
"The drink," I croaked. My voice was rough, unused.
Ginny didn't answer at once. She leaned closer, studying my face. Her hand rested lightly on my knee, steadying me.
"It wasn't Firewhisky," she said at last, her voice low. "It didn't smell right. Too sharp. That wasn't normal alcohol."
I gave a weak nod and instantly regretted it. The corridor tilted, and I pitched forward, my hands flying out to stop myself from sliding off the bench. The motion made everything worse; my stomach lurched, the cold sank deeper into my skin, and a dull ache spread through my limbs.
Ginny caught me before I fell. Her hands gripped my shoulders, firm and steady. "Alright," she murmured. "I've got you."
"I'll be fine in a minute," I said, though I didn't believe it. My fingertips were numb, and my teeth had started to chatter uncontrollably.
"No, you won't," Ginny said sharply. "You're shaking, you're as white as Nearly Headless Nick, and you're drenched in sweat. This isn't drunkenness, Harry. Something's wrong. You need the Hospital Wing."
I didn't have the strength to argue. I couldn't even manage a joke. I just sat there, focusing on breathing.
Footsteps echoed behind us, and a second voice called out, breathless and unsure.
"Harry?"
Hermione.
She came into view, flushed, with hair falling loose around her face. She looked dazed, as if the noise of the party was still clinging to her.
Ginny rose, stepping between us before I realised what she meant to do.
"What was in the drink?" Ginny demanded, her voice hard.
Hermione blinked, startled. "What? It looked like a Glumbumble Fizz—someone was mixing things near the back wall. I checked for warming and dilution charms and thought it was fine. Why?"
"He's not well," Ginny said sharply. "You didn't notice?"
"I… I did," Hermione said quickly. "I didn't think—"
Her face crumpled, guilt cutting through the leftover daze.
"You didn't realise," Ginny cut in, eyes bright with anger. "He's been poisoned, or close to it. He needs a healer. I'm taking him to the Hospital Wing."
"I'll help—" Hermione began, stepping forward, but Ginny didn't move.
"Get Professor McGonagall. I'll take him."
Hermione nodded.
I pushed myself upright, gripping the bench for balance. "Take me to Remus," I muttered. "He'll know what to do."
Ginny turned, frowning. "You're sure?"
I nodded, slower this time, closing my eyes to stop the world spinning.
She hesitated, then exhaled through her nose. "Alright. But if he says Pomfrey, we go. No argument."
She looped my arm over her shoulder and lifted me with more strength than I'd expected. I tried not to lean on her too much, but it was useless. My legs trembled. My knees buckled more than once. Ginny's grip stayed firm, her stride steady.
I couldn't look back at Hermione.
The corridors blurred past. I couldn't have said how long it took. The torches bled together, my ears ringing. My whole body felt heavy and hollow, as if something were draining the life from me inch by inch.
Then I heard it—a voice. Faint at first, then closer, sharper, worried.
"Harry?"
Remus.
Ginny guided me through the door and eased me onto a sofa by the fire. I sank into it, grateful for something soft, something still.
"He was at a party," Ginny said quickly but clearly. "The Room of Requirement. He drank something. He's sweating, shaking, barely coherent. I think it was spiked."
There was a pause.
Remus spoke again, his voice lower now.
"Thank you for bringing him to me. I'll take it from here," he said, in that voice that made calm sound like a command.
It was the voice he used when things were bad and he didn't want me to know how bad. His eyes flicked once to mine—calm on the surface, but the fear beneath it was unmistakable.
Ginny hesitated at the doorway. For a moment, I thought she might stay. But she turned instead.
"Tell Harry I hope he feels better soon," she said quietly.
Then she was gone. The door clicked shut behind her.
Remus knelt beside me. His hand was cool against my forehead, brushing my hair aside. His fingers found my wrist, checking my pulse. His presence was steady and familiar.
"I've got you," he murmured.
I tried to speak, but no words came. My head fell back against the cushions.
Remus stood and moved to the fireplace. His voice sounded urgent, though I couldn't make out the words. He was speaking into the Floo. Calling for help, maybe someone from the Order. There were still things too dangerous to treat alone.
The crackle of the fire dulled to a distant hum, and everything slipped into darkness.
I had no idea what time it was when I woke. It felt like surfacing through ash instead of water. The curtains were drawn, but a strip of pale light crept around the edges, thin and colourless. It wasn't enough to tell whether it was morning or late afternoon, only that it wasn't night. The room was quiet, heavy with that particular hush that means someone is waiting for you to stir but has not spoken yet.
My head felt thick. Not pounding, exactly, more like pressure closing in from all sides, slow and steady, as if my skull had decided it would rather not house a brain at all. I shifted and was rewarded with a burst of nausea and the dry sting of air scraping my throat.
My tongue felt like sandpaper, thick and dry, and every breath scraped my throat as if I had spent the night shouting into a storm. My limbs were slow to respond, weighted by something I could not see but could feel sitting deep in the marrow of my bones.
Underneath it all, there was warmth: residual heat spreading from my chest, the antidote charm Remus always used in the field.
It was the feeling of something wrong being forced out. The magic did not heal; it scorched. It burned out whatever had invaded and left your body to cope with the absence. My skin prickled as if my veins had only just remembered how to carry blood.
Whatever Remus, or whoever else, had done, it had worked. I was not dying. Not anymore, at least.
I did not feel whole. I did not feel better. I felt emptied, scraped raw, then scrubbed down again. A shell.
I stayed still, staring at the ceiling while the rafters blurred and shifted, and the pieces of the morning slowly slotted back into place.
There had been music. Laughter. Loud voices echoing off enchanted walls.
A drink had been shoved into my hand.
Then another.
Faces I did not recognise. A grin too wide. A girl I did not know brushed my arm and laughed at nothing.
Then the floor tilted.
Everything slipped out of sync.
I remembered the panic first. Dizzy, rising terror when I realised I could not stand properly. Cold sweat. My hands would not listen. My mouth would not form words.
Then came voices. Not mine. Someone spoke to me, or about me, but I could not make out the words. I remembered something sharp, something that sounded angry, but the edges were too blurred to catch.
And then—
Remus.
I remembered the shift in his tone before I saw his face. Soft alarm. His voice dropped, firm but gentle, the way it always did when something had gone very wrong and he did not want to startle anyone.
Then another voice.
A hand.
Ginny.
I groaned and rolled onto my side, dragging the scratchy blanket over my head, hiding from the memory as if that might erase it.
Of all the people in the entire bloody castle, why did it have to be her?
I could see her too clearly. Hair tied back, face pale, sleeves pushed up, eyes sharp with worry. She had not hesitated. She knew something was wrong before I did. She grabbed my arm, led me out, and held me up. She was there. And I—
Bloody hell, I must have looked pathetic. Slumped and useless, sweating as if I had just run a marathon in a wool jumper.
Had I said anything? I think I tried. Had I thanked her? Had I even looked at her?
I tried to speak, to thank her, maybe, but I was slurring nonsense, blind and useless.
A fresh wave of humiliation rose in my chest, and I pressed my face harder into the pillow.
I could still hear her voice, firm and clipped, telling Hermione no, insisting she would be the one to get me to the Infirmary. She did not ask. She told. And Hermione, Hermione, did not even argue.
Why?
Why had Ginny stood in front of me like that?
Why had she cared?
Or was it pity? The thought turned my stomach.
I did not want pity. Especially not hers.
The memory of her hand, warm and sure around mine, surfaced uninvited. I could still feel it and still remember how steady she was while I could barely tell which way was up.
The shame was not new; it only had a new name now: carelessness.
I clenched my jaw.
It should not have been her. Being saved meant being seen, and that was the one thing I couldn't afford.
And Remus.
I swallowed hard. That memory was clearer than the rest. His face. The way he looked at me was not furious, not even disappointed exactly, but something quieter. Something that felt worse.
He had not said much. His silence said everything.
He thanked Ginny for bringing me. Calmly. Gently. Then she left.
And I, what did I do? I slumped there like a dead weight on the sofa, as if I were eleven again, not seventeen. Hardly the person Remus should rely on.
I shut my eyes tight.
I had only been back a week. A week. And already I had proved every one of Remus's worries right. I could not even get through a bloody social without ending up poisoned and half conscious on the floor. What message did that send?
Oh yes, the Boy Who Lived, I thought bitterly. Just don't hand him a drink.
I curled tighter under the blanket, my face burning.
I should have known something was off. I did know. The drink tasted wrong, too sweet, with a bite underneath that was not normal. It smelt off, metallic. But I drank it anyway. Why?
Because someone handed it to me and smiled?
Because I did not want to seem awkward or paranoid?
Because I was too bloody proud to say no, thanks?
Pathetic.
Utterly, completely pathetic.
Remus saw all of it, the weakness and the lapse.
I stared up at the ceiling until the lines blurred again, my chest tight.
If it had been a mistake, I could live with that.
If it hadn't…
Then someone here wasn't guessing.
They wanted me dead, and they knew enough to try.
The war hadn't stayed outside the walls. It had followed me in.