I wasn't the sort of tired that wanted sleep; my limbs felt heavy, but my mind would not stop. I pulled my clothes off and dropped them on the floor; I didn't bother to pick them up.
The bathroom tiles were cold under my feet. I turned the tap until the water ran hot. The flow hit my shoulders and chest hard; I kept my eyes shut and let it pound at me. The heat stung; for a few seconds my thoughts stopped moving.
Steam rose fast and filled the small room until it covered the mirror. Remus stamped a thin ring of sigils under the showerhead; when the water hit them, each mark flared warm and sent a soft vibration through the metal.
Water entered my mouth and ran into my nose for a time, and I inhaled the scent of metal, soap, and a trace of antiseptic. The water washed outward from me in sound and motion. It changed nothing inside. It only made the ache clearer.
Remus had told me to sit in the silence, to let the calm show me what I needed. He said it from experience. I could still see the patrols sometimes: a low, wind-bent night outside a safe house, Remus checking doors twice while I counted the stars until they blurred. He made sure that the established boundaries remained protected. When he mentioned quiet would teach me something, he meant that stillness was a tool, not a judgement. The memory didn't fix things, but it instructed less.
I stayed under the spray until the heat left my skin. I stepped out, put on a T-shirt and sweater, and went to bed without drying properly. The sheets held a subtle scent of Remus's jumper: laundry, dust and old paper. It was not like a home; it felt like a place set up for safety.
I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling. The room was too still, and my thoughts kept returning to the same thing.
Ginny.
I had said it in my head so often that it sat there ready; saying it made my chest ache the same way every time. The idea of not seeing her again caused the pressure to tighten. It was not a casual, romantic emotion but an urgent need; if she appeared, I knew exactly what I would say.
"Help me get out. Walk me out of this. Take me away from this place, even for an hour."
I did not expect her to rescue me from danger. I figured she would make it appear easy to handle, allowing me to relax. She did not regard me as if she would assess me for being damaged or a difficulty; she treated me like someone responsible for their own actions. That was rare, and it mattered to me.
I rolled onto my side and pulled the covers up to my chin. My skin had cooled, and there was a dull chill under the blankets. I tried to quiet my breathing by counting in and out, but it only made me notice each pulse and the tightness worse.
I pictured Hermione in the doorway telling me not to be dramatic and offering practical suggestions; she'd be right in her own way. I could hear her saying I shouldn't make a single afternoon into something bigger than it was. A side of me agreed; another part refused to listen.
This was not a sudden crush. It was not a simple wanting that would pass. Ginny became someone I depended on in a world that provided very few of that. A few conversations, a look in a corridor, a small kindness in the common room—enough to show that a piece of me could be ordinary if I let it. I had had little ordinary in years.
I had kept my day together, followed Remus's rules and not made trouble. Yet it was never sufficient. A steady warning stayed with me, a prickling at the back of my mind whenever I relaxed.
A sudden, unwelcome question arrived: was this all I would ever have? Managed days and careful choices and people who watched every step I took? Not because I was bad, but because I might be. The idea seemed harsh. I could not push it away.
Panic rose slowly and then fast. My hands turned icy. The blankets felt thin. I breathed in, and the air did not feel like enough. For a moment, I had the sensation that I could fall apart, as though all boundaries were dissolving.
I did not move. I stayed in bed because going about seemed risky. If I left the room, I might say something I didn't mean; if I shouted or ran, I might break whatever trust Remus had left. If I remained still, maybe morning would come and sense would return.
I told myself the facts: I had not run nor fought, and I'd kept to the day's demands. That had to count. However, the list of things I hadn't done that had prevented me from doing them grew until it filled my thoughts.
What if this was how things stayed? I pictured my life measured and approved, everything checked and controlled. It looked like a world of rules and permissions, with no surprises and no ordinary mistakes to learn from. It seemed my choices were shrinking daily.
I wanted to ask Remus for a small mercy. I wanted him to say the night could hold one mistake without changing the entire situation. But I could see him already: steady, careful, the man who had taken me in when others would not. He had reasons for his caution that came from loss and from knowledge. He would not give gentle words if they were not true. I understood that and resented it at the same time.
I breathed slowly until my chest loosened a little. The panic did not vanish but eased back. I remained still since it seemed safer than doing something. I told myself survival was small: wake, eat, turn up, keep going.
If that was all I had to do now, I would do it, even if it took the gentle portion of me and made me feel empty.
I closed my eyes and thought of Ginny again. The memory of a particular laugh, the set of her shoulders, the ease with which she had answered me in the common room. Not much to anyone else, but enough for me. It was all I had to keep against the emptiness, tiny and stubborn.
Tomorrow, I would try once more after making it through the night. I'd stay quiet, do what Remus asked and wait. I couldn't guarantee I would not break, but I vowed small things: strive for one more day. It was a plan I might hold on to.
Morning came pale and flat. The grey light showed dust on the sill. It was Monday, as he had said. The wards had been lifted during the night while I dozed; the tone beneath the door had changed from a tight buzz to an easy hum, and the ward's pressure had eased; there was a faint scent like heated iron where it had been strongest, so I must have slept without noticing.
I lay still for a long time, listening for the little sounds: a settling in the beams, the kettle clicking on, footsteps in the hall. When the sound of movement came, it was familiar and careful. Remus moving at the teapot was an ordinary pattern I had learned to recognise. He did not hurry. He measured everything he did with small, exact motions and no fuss.
I padded out, barefoot. The stone under my feet was cold and sharp. He had not turned when I walked into the kitchen. He stood with his back to me, stirring the leaves in the pot with the sort of slow patience he used when he read. He did not ask, "How did you sleep?" or "Are you all right?". He simply kept to the routine and made the tea.
He poured two mugs. Mine had a small chip at the rim; I liked it because it was familiar. Milk, one sugar—he always got that correct.
"How long has the kettle been on?" I asked because saying anything at all felt better than staying quiet.
"Quite a while," he murmured, without looking up. His voice was flat in that morning way. How he appeared was what came when he'd not slept soundly: a taut mouth and shadows under his eyes. The tiny lines at the corners of his lips were clearer in the light.
We ate when the house-elf brought the tray. Eggs, toast, roasted tomatoes, and a little bowl of porridge. The elf placed it carefully, and I mumbled a thank you. The elf disappeared with a soft crack he made, and I wasn't sure he heard me. I ate the way people did when they were keeping to rules: chew, swallow, follow the spoon.
No one said the thing that had been between the two of us over the weekend. It was not angry silence. It appeared as though we bargained for quiet, a space that we had not yet filled with words. I watched my plate because seeing Remus's face seemed risky.
When the plates were empty, I stood first. That decided for the both of us. He rose and followed me into the hall. The wand lay on the side table where he'd set it the night before, clean and polished. He did not lecture. He offered it to me and spoke nothing else.
I took it because my hand moved before I thought. The wood was familiar and simple between my fingers;
"Thanks," I said. It was small, but it was honest.
He nodded. No smile. No further words. That was his way of closing a moment without forcing it open again.
We walked together down the hallway. The castle had the scent of stone and oil and faint smoke from some distant room. The corridor noises were low: someone laughing a step ahead, a broom sweeping. Remus strode with a steady, deliberate pace I had watched him take for months. I matched him as best I could. My feet were a touch slower than my head.
At the fork in the passage, he stopped. The junction split toward the staff rooms and right to the main stair. He looked at me for a moment and then turned left. He did not tell me where to go.
I stood for a short while after he had gone. I proceeded to the Gryffindor Tower to get dressed. On the steps I passed a pair of second years arguing about Transfiguration and a prefect hurrying with a pile of parchment. All appeared ordinary, and I was a little detached, as though I was looking in.
Back in the dormitory, I lingered over every small chore. Buttoning my shirt took three tries because my hands would not stop fidgeting; I tied my tie slowly as if the knot would set the day straight. I checked the mirror and saw the same face I get: hair in the wrong place, spectacles a touch lopsided, and the faint shadow under my eyes where sleep had left its stamp.
The uniform settled around me. How the robe looked, the weight of the badge, the scent of the fabric when I closed the trunk: all of it was mundane. It should have felt reassuring, but it seemed like a rehearsal for a bigger thing.
I rechecked my wand holster, and the leather was warm from the charm Remus had taught me to keep it dry. To catch draughts, I quickly and carefully cast a spell on parchment. I checked the nib of my quill with a short polishing spell and watched the wet sheen settle. The rituals were small, but they made the day seem manageable. Even the smallest charms had a habit of pulling the edges of the world back into shape.
I paused at the window and looked out at the grey morning. The rain from the previous night had moistened the roofs of the castle, and the crisp, pure air roused me completely. I breathed it in and let it sit in my chest.
Down in the common room, the fire was low. Several students were already in small groups, discussing their homework and the upcoming day.
By the time I reached the Great Hall, the room was full of its usual noise and motion. The smell was exactly what I recalled from different mornings: toast, pumpkin juice, and the subtle scent of ink from another's notes. Ordinary things. Things that made the world sensible for a moment.
Hermione sat partway down the Gryffindor table, talking fast about dress robes. Lavender and Parvati nodded like it mattered who chose what shade. Neville attempted to appear interested. Seamus munched toast and pretended not to listen. Ron was not there, and I couldn't say whether it improved or worsened things.
I sat beside Hermione as she paused for a sip of pumpkin juice. Her face changed when she saw me.
"Oh, you've finally turned up," she remarked. "Where have you been all weekend? You missed a lot."
I kept my hands still and reached for a toast.
Parvati's voice cut in, high and eager. "We were just planning the Hogsmeade trip. Everyone's going to shop for the Promenade. Gladrags Wizardwear's having a new shipment in—lace hems, silk, and some enchanted pieces that shimmer when you move."
"Sounds fun," I muttered. The bread was dry.
Hermione turned back to me. "You're coming, right? To Hogsmeade?"
I shrugged. "Possibly. Haven't decided so far."
She looked at me sharply. "You must be joking. Everyone's going. It'd do you good to get out a bit."
I kept my voice low. "I'm still undecided about the dance."
Silence fell over the table. Lavender and Parvati exchanged looks. Seamus glanced up over his toast.
"You're not attending?" Hermione pressed. "Why would you miss it?"
"I don't have a date," I admitted. I hoped the excuse would end the subject. It did not.
Parvati snorted. "Ask any person. You'd get an answer."
I gave a short laugh I did not feel. A few people who thought a polite invitation would do had already asked me, but none of them was Ginny. I kept that to myself.
Hermione's face changed, less teasing and more careful. "Just think about it. If you leave it too late, someone else will ask."
I opened my mouth to say something stupid and stopped because I saw Ginny.
She moved along the table toward the doorway. Her ponytail held her hair back loosely. She wore her Quidditch jumper over her robes, and the captain's badge glinted near her shoulder. She kept her head down and walked with purpose, not lingering at the tables, not talking to anyone in particular.
My chest tightened, and I didn't know what to do. I stood before I thought about it. The bench scraped as I pushed back, and my fork clattered to the floor. No one nearby commented. Their own conversations filled the space again.
"Harry?" Hermione blurted, confused. "Where are you going?"
"I'll catch you later," I managed. My voice sounded too loud in my own ears.
I left the table straightaway, weaving through the throng. Students flowed around me. Plates clattered. Someone shared a joke, and people laughed. I moved faster than the crowd and pushed between a pair of Ravenclaws, who muttered as I passed. A portrait followed my motion with a sleepy remark and then turned away. The corridor beyond the arch looked the same as it always did: stone-flagged with banners along the walls. But the moment I was out of the Great Hall, the noise dropped and my steps rang.
I kept my eyes ahead. She had not stopped. She walked into the right-hand passage that led toward the common room and the portrait hole. I almost had her in view when a knot of students blocked the way. I went through them quicker, and my pulse raced in my throat. My hands were slick against my satchel strap.
"Ginny—wait."
She did not stop.
"Ginny!"
I hated the sound of my voice, raw and higher than I wanted, but I could not hold it back. She paused just for a second and then turned. Her face was careful and unreadable. Not unfriendly, not cold, only closed in a way that made it hard to tell what came next.
"Hi," I said when I reached her. My breath was shallow and quick. "Can we talk for a minute?"
Her eyes slid past me to the corridor, checking exits, scanning faces. For a second, I wondered if she was looking for someone in particular. Then she gave a curt nod and moved to a stone bench set into the wall. She settled down in an easy, practised posture. I followed and sat at the other end, maintaining a distance that appeared polite.
A group of younger girls drifted by and acted as if they were observing a noticeboard. One of them nudged her friend and gave a small sound of interest, which sent a ripple of looks in our direction.
"You want a crowd?" I asked, nodding at them.
Ginny averted her eyes from them. Her voice was flat and calm. "People will stare. That's what they do here."
There was no anger in it, only tight control. She never made a show of being watched. She accepted it as something she had to manage.
I forced a composed smile. "Right. Noted."
She raised an eyebrow, just once. "Why aren't you with Hermione and the others?"
I stalled for a breath too long. It was difficult for me to share the truth. I kept it short. "They were talking about dress robes," I explained. "I'm not very good at that kind of planning. I am more interested in you."
She gave a quick, almost scornful laugh and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The act settled something in me I couldn't have put into speech.
"There's nothing very interesting about me," she murmured, but there was no real dismissal in it.
"That is not true," I told her, and it seemed more stable than I was. I had meant to be light and to slide the conversation into normal territory, but my words felt heavier. She watched me with a steady gaze, attentive and not patronising, and I realised how unused I had become to being observed without myth hanging over me.
Before I could think of a better line, two of the Quidditch team came jogging up the corridor. They arrived in a rush and then adopted the stop-and-start manner that boys their age use when they are nervous and have a task.
"Ginny," one of them blurted with a crack at the edge of his voice. "Regarding Saturday, Captain, we were thinking we should change the wing positioning. Hufflepuff's Keeper tends to anticipate the old feint. We attempted a shift in action that might cause their Keeper to move incorrectly."
They spoke fast and practically, full of the minor details of practice: timing, angles, and the sound one of them kept making when he tried to explain it. Ginny straightened, not conversational now but businesslike. She took the strategy from them, asked a precise question about distance and another about coordination, and then adjusted a single point in their plan.
They listened, waited, and didn't smirk or try to make a joke. They had respect in the way she organised things. When they left, both of them walked away an inch taller than before.
When they were out of earshot, Ginny turned back to me. A softness at the edges of her face appeared, which hadn't been there a moment before, or maybe Captain's focus had masked it, and it was only easing now that the practical stuff was over. I found I couldn't choose whether I was relieved or embarrassed by the transition.
I shifted forward on the bench. "How do you do that?" I asked quickly because the words had pushed themselves out before I could keep them in. "Get people to listen like that. Make it work."
She hesitated almost imperceptibly, then shrugged. "Practice," she replied. "Being the youngest in a big family helps. You learn to be heard and to cope with things. You also become familiar with a lot."
She could be concise and communicate a great deal. That was a piece of how she handled things: clarity, the type of skill one could show on a diagram. None of it was showy.
I told myself I would keep the rest simple. "I missed you yesterday," I admitted. The words came out softer than I meant, but I could not take them back. I had left her the night before without warning. Remus had set a limit, and I had obeyed, although it still seemed wrong to leave her waiting.
She did not answer straightaway. Her jaw moved a fraction, and a little crease formed between her brows. "You weren't here," she answered. The plainness of her voice hit me harder than I expected.
"I'm sorry," I apologized. "You should have been told. I hadn't planned to make you wait."
Her mouth tightened. "You didn't show up. I thought maybe an incident had happened."
I clenched my hands in the folds of my cloak. "It wasn't what I wanted. Something came up, and I—well, I couldn't get out of it. I mean, if you'd yelled at me for being late, I would've deserved it. You're probably terrifying when you are annoyed."
I swallowed and pushed myself to express what I really thought. "You can still trust me," I added quietly. "If you wish to. I know I made it difficult last night, but I don't want you thinking I am indifferent."
She looked at me properly. "You say that now," she remarked in a low voice. "Words are easy. Prove to me you mean it."
There was no sharpness in her tone. It wasn't cruel. It was sensible and just. She had every right to test me. I had no reason to expect trust after vanishing and saying nothing.
"Fair enough," I agreed. "I'll show you and make sure you don't have to wonder."
"Show me," she returned. She folded her arms and met my eyes, waiting without pleading and mocking.
"Honestly, I'm impressed you even wanted to see me again. I'd have hexed myself."
I had a list of things I hoped to tell her about why I didn't come and how stupid I seemed for letting someone worry. None of that was hers to carry. She deserved proof, not explanations. I thought of Remus in the quarters, the tired expression he gave me when I failed to be punctual. I considered the rules we had because a person was careless and got hurt. Inside, I kept everything and tried to steady my voice.
"Tell me where to be and I'll be there. I can be reliable. I even made it to Potions on time once. If I can't make something, I will let you know. I won't disappear unexpectedly. I can sit with you at breakfast too and not spill pumpkin juice."
She nodded slowly. "We could start from there or cheer for the same team without arguing."
A pause settled between us. People moved past, students chattering about classes and Hogsmeade and everything that wasn't this exact moment. A portrait two doors down argued about a chess match. Those noises should have calmed me. Instead, they made my stomach twinge.
"I'm loyal," I insisted, wanting to put it simply. "Just… not great at showing it sometimes."
Ginny raised an eyebrow and gave me an expression that said she had doubts. Fair enough. I had no intention of making excuses. Saying it was better than keeping it in.
She stayed quiet for a long time, observing me in a way that suggested she was weighing me up against standards only she knew. I tried to be useful. "Is there anything I can help with?" I asked.
"No." The word was too quick, flat. Then, a fraction softer, she added, "But… thanks. For asking."
Her refusal prickled. I had disappeared on her, and she had every right to be annoyed. Even though it wouldn't change the situation, I shrugged. I folded my arms and breathed through my nose to slow the jitter in my limbs.
"You know," I tried after a moment, aiming for a lighter tone, "keeping secrets is supposed to be unhealthy for a proper relationship."
She gave me a warning glance. "Who said anything about a relationship?" she countered. "We don't have to tell each other everything. It's not like we're married."
"Married?" I echoed before I stopped myself, and a few nearby heads turned. I flushed. "Blimey, I didn't realise we were skipping straight to vows."
Ginny rolled her eyes, and I took that as a small victory.
"I thought we could start slower," I offered, attempting sarcasm and failing on purpose. "You know. Hogsmeade trips. Awkward hand-holding."
She lifted one corner of her mouth. "Are you proposing Hogsmeade as a test of devotion?"
"You could say that," I teased. "It's rigorous. There will be sweets and walking and possibly the need to pick a toilet roll from the Owl Office."
She narrowed her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous," she shot back.
"Alright. No vows. No proposals," I conceded, holding up my hands.
She looked unconvinced. Then her face changed in a small way: a faint colour came to her cheeks, and she turned her head away for a moment. It was almost nothing, but it mattered to me more than it should.
I let the silence hang for a beat. I wanted to reach across and take her hand, to show her with a simple touch that I was sincere. But doubt was a safer choice; I kept my voice low.
"When I said I'm loyal, I meant it," I told her. "I'll prove it. I don't expect you to believe me straight away, but I won't disappear without saying something."
She looked at me for a long, steady moment. The bustle of the corridor continued around us. Someone laughed in the distance. A portrait loudly declared that a wrong move in wizard's chess ruined a strategy and then returned to arguing.
Ginny's expression loosened a little. It was not a full smile, and it was not forgiveness. It was a small easing of the tension across her face, like a slackening knot.
"All right," she allowed. "Start with showing up. That would be a good place."
"I can do that," I promised. It seemed real after saying it.
She folded her cloak about her. "Great. I have practice afterwards. You should get to class."
"See you later," I offered.
She nodded once and strolled away. I watched her go, aware of how normal her movement was: shoulders square, step measured, hair tucked behind an ear when the wind shifted. It should not have struck me so much, but it did. Ordinary looked solid and possible. I wanted to be part of that and not on the edge.
I stood and walked toward the stairs. My feet were steadier than when I had sat down. The promise I had made did not fix everything; it was small, and it was only a start. That suited me. Little things were what I had left to give. I kept the promise in my chest as I moved, practical and simple, and for once the weight of it seemed bearable.