My feelings for Ginny came on without warning, sudden and tight, and now they would not let go. I had not meant it to happen, but it had. It was steady and final, not loud but always there; a small, constant pressure behind my ribs that I only noticed when I stopped trying to ignore it.
It was not a crush. I had had those before: short, confused moments that felt like curiosity rather than anything lasting. This was different. That caused everything that had come before to seem empty and unimportant to me.
It made me nervous, if I was being honest.
I thought about her at odd times; during breakfast when toast went cold in my hand, during lessons when the Professor looked past me, when I should have been revising for N.E.W.T.s. It was worse when I was with Remus; I could feel my hands go shaky, my words slow. When he gazed at me, I felt the back of my neck prickle, and I had to unclench my fingers.
I began watching what I mentioned around him, careful not to let her name slip. I did not bring her up, not directly. He noticed. I caught his eye a few times, and he gave me a look that suggested he knew.
Remus never said anything. No warnings, no lectures, and no sideways remarks about distraction or priorities. If he disapproved, he kept it to himself and carried on.
I was grateful for that. Honestly, I was. But it didn't make things easier.
A change had come between us, small but clear. Our conversations had new pauses. There were quiet gaps at meals that neither of us filled. I realised how weak circumstances felt now. The connection we used to have no longer held the same way.
I did nothing about it. I told myself it would pass, that he was tired, that we would be fine. The truth was, I was avoiding it. I did not want a confrontation or to hear what he might say. So I left it alone and put it in the part of my head I used for things I was not ready to face.
I realized I would regret it eventually.
For now, I had Ginny to think about. That made it harder to reason clearly, and I knew it would cause trouble in the end.
Mornings felt different these days. I would pull myself out of bed, shove on the nearest jumper and get through the day. Lately I lingered at the mirror, fussing with my fringe, wondering if she would notice. My hair was hopeless as ever, but I still tried. I imagined what she might see: whether I stood straighter, slept, or looked like the boy she once knew.
I kept a mental log of our talks, replaying them at odd times, going over each word and every expression on her face to work out what a pause, a smile or a quick look had meant.
Sometimes I felt a minor triumph when I remembered something I had said that made her laugh or seem pleased. On other occasions, I groaned, remembering an awkward thing I had done. There were too many of those.
So, I began rehearsing in my head at night when I could not sleep. I worked on sharper replies and jokes and kept track of which one's felt natural in case a moment came up to use one.
It was ridiculous, and I knew it, but I could not stop.
I watched Hermione laugh across the table, her eyes creased and her hand wrapped around a mug of tea. She had a quiet, steady kind of happiness that I only noticed because I did not have it.
I was jealous of her. Of all of them, really.
They still talked about the future openly.
The thought made my chest tighten. It was not just jealousy; it felt closer to grief.
It was not their fault. It had not been taken from them. They spoke about post-Hogwarts plans without hesitating—careers, travel, families, homes they had not yet built. They made it sound ordinary, as if getting older was something they could count on. As if time itself were on their side.
And for them, maybe it was.
But not for me.
I was not like them. My future intentions had stopped when I was younger, and the rest of me followed. I was a target. As a survivor, I wasn't someone people could plan a life around. I did not expect to reach thirty with grey hair and laugh lines and photos on the walls.
I did not have that luxury. I expected my time to be shorter than most people's, and every day felt uncertain. More than once, I told myself to curb my feelings for Ginny, and push her away to keep her safe and to draw a line.
And yet I never did.
If I had learned anything from watching relationships form and fall apart around me, it was that powerful emotions did not care about time. A few weeks could change everything. People expected you to sit next to each other in every class after three months. After six months, you were sharing a lot. After one year, it was almost like a marriage by Hogwarts standards.
Nobody knew how long anything would last now. None could assume they had any opportunity.
So, I stopped pretending to care about doing the right thing.
I might have twelve months left, or less, if Voldemort made a mistake. Either way, I quit behaving as if that moment was on my side.
The truth was simple. Every second with Ginny felt like time taken back from the war. It stood out against the rest of my days, which were all the same dullness. I needed those moments. It was necessary for me to keep them to remember who I was and who I had been before the conflict shaped me. Sometimes my scar prickled faintly when I thought of her; not pain, just a small, steady prickling that made me aware I was alive.
If it ended and I made it that far, thoughts of her—the sound of her laugh, the feel of her hand in mine, the way she looked at me—would be the things that kept me going.
They reminded me that someone loved me, even if only for a short time.
I didn't have to try hard to collect memories of Ginny because we continued making new ones almost every day. Although we didn't always plan it and it wasn't official, we fell into a steady routine, meeting regularly at set places and times we both knew.
Sometimes it was nothing more than a few words exchanged as we passed in the corridor, or a shared look across the common room that said more than any conversation could manage. In other instances, we were sitting together at lunch, our knees brushing under the table, or pretending to focus on a chess match while we were really just enjoying being close.
She made a habit of glancing over her shoulder when walking through the courtyard. I made a habit of being where she would look.
When I wasn't in class, I became almost hyper-aware of my surroundings, scanning all the grounds, corridors and the Quidditch pitch. I'd catch the tip of her ponytail disappearing into the changing rooms or the arch of her brow as she laughed at something a teammate said. Even when she was not in sight, I caught myself straining to find her.
Hermione rolled her eyes one afternoon as I craned my neck toward the pitch. "You might as well just enchant a pair of Omnioculars into your glasses," she muttered, not bothering to lower her voice.
She wasn't wrong.
On afternoons when Ginny didn't have training, we'd walk back to Gryffindor Tower together. I insisted on carrying her bag, which she claimed was ridiculous. "I can carry my own things, Harry; I'm not injured." But she always handed it over eventually.
We started taking the long way round past the rosebushes near Greenhouse Three, along the curve of the Black Lake and through the narrow arch behind the Charms corridor that led to the Astronomy Tower. On the last stretch, we consistently walked, using the same path and benches until it felt like ours. Sometimes I'd glance back, and the protective enchantments on the tower windows would catch the light in a manner that reminded me Hogwarts was old, and watching. But the view was always better up there, wind moving my hair, the castle below and the lake, and we could be ourselves without others present.
From time to time, we talked. About Quidditch, or lessons, or what Seamus had said that made no earthly sense. Sometimes we didn't. I didn't mind the silence. I liked the way it settled around us—not awkward, just comfortable. Companionable.
There were afternoons when I spoke hardly anything at all, too caught up in watching her. The curve of her smile. The flick of her fingers as she gestured. When thinking, she would wrinkle her nose. Her hair was slightly wild no matter what she did to it, the colour deep red in the light. Her eyes, which I could never quite put into words, were sharp and unreadable, unless they weren't.
I never tired of it. Of her.
At some point, I realised I could recognise her before she actually appeared. A subtle shift in the air, a scent I'd come to associate with her—fresh and floral. I didn't even know exactly what flowers. Just her. It would linger on her jumpers, and when she brushed past me in the corridor, it made my chest tighten, my hands go cold.
It's strange, isn't it? That something so simple could stop me from drifting.
Because not everything felt steady. Not remotely close.
There were moments, fleeting but sharp, when I'd glance around half-expecting a threat to leap out at us from the other side of a wall.
A hex.
A shadow.
A name spoken from nowhere.
I kept thinking we were being watched, not by classmates but by something else, something darker. As though Death Eaters might hide behind the spires of the castle or under the lake, tracking my movements and waiting to strike. Gathering evidence of the life I was building, of the existence they meant to destroy.
But nothing occurred. Not yet. No sudden alarms. No warnings. Just bright afternoons and Ginny's laughter, and the sharp realisation that this, whatever we had, might be the last good thing I ever allowed myself.
It was Ginny who changed things for me.
Not suddenly; it happened step by step, and I did not notice at first. I had spent so long feeling separate from most of what went on at Hogwarts. Not because others weren't friendly or didn't know who I was, but because I wasn't sure how much of it was true.
When I was with Ginny, it was different. Students relaxed when they saw us together. A portrait nearby lowered its voice as we passed, as if the castle was aware of us. Maybe it was because she belonged to the school: Quidditch captain, popular and quick to hex anyone who stepped out of line. Or perhaps she just made me seem normal.
Whatever the reason, it worked.
Suddenly, I was not simply a strange figure in the halls. People greeted me as they passed, waved and asked how I had done in Transfiguration or whether Snape's Potions test had been harder. Standing outside Charms waiting for Ginny, someone would nudge me with a remark about the weather, Quidditch or lunch, and I'd blink, not used to being included.
She never made a fuss. She did not parade me around or cling to me. We were not on show, and we were not hiding; we simply walked together, and people noticed. The staring changed to smiles. Heads still turned, but it felt like approval rather than curiosity.
Hermione had relaxed too. I had seen her wariness at first, the way she worried before she asked questions. A change occurred. Maybe she saw us laughing with each other in the courtyard or the time Ginny helped me finish an essay one afternoon without making a scene about it. Or perhaps she simply understood how much I needed something good in my life.
She stopped producing small sounds of disapproval and began giving me looks that said, "Alright, I suppose you could do worse."
Still, I didn't see Ginny as often as I wanted to.
Most of our classes were different. Hers leaned towards Charms and Herbology; she had a knack for them, especially Charms. Flitwick adored her and once remarked in passing that she reminded him of her mother. I did not know whether he implied it as praise or simply an observation, but Ginny had looked pleased.
My timetable gravitated more towards Defence. I continued to do well in it, though I rarely let myself feel proud, and that meant our paths crossed little during the day. Besides Divination, which we still had, we snatched our meetings between lessons, stole them at lunch, or stretched them out on long walks to the lake in the evenings.
If we had shared more classes, I would have followed her without meaning to. I had already done it once or twice, lingering outside a classroom and pretending to check a noticeboard I did not care about, in case she walked past. Pathetic, really.
But I didn't mind.
We were making our way down the corridor to the Great Hall. Sunlight came through the tall windows and threw uneven shadows across the stone floor. Ginny was just ahead, hands stuffed into her robe sleeves, walking with that easy, determined stride she had. Her hair caught the sun and flashed bright red; people turned to look.
I followed, my Defence textbook tucked under my arm. The spine was warm where my hand held it, a faint buzz of residual magic from last week's practicals.
"I reckon practical Defence's still my favourite subject," I offered, flicking the book open as we strolled. The pages fanned and fell onto a rough diagram with a half-faded note in the margin. I didn't look at her; I was hoping for some reaction.
She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. "Is that why you carry that book around like it's your diary?"
I grinned . "Bet you don't know what Appare Vestigium is," I teased.
Ginny tilted her head and squinted at the page. "Sounds painful. Do you have to see Madam Pomfrey after?"
I laughed and said, "Not quite. It's a spell that shows magical traces and residual marks. You can see who's been somewhere and what sort of enchantment they used. If used carefully, the spell leaves thin silver threads in the air where the magic was strongest; you learn to read them like footprints."
Her eyes widened. "Blimey. That would've been handy during fifth year, or fourth, or whenever I had to chase someone."
"Yeah," I chuckled. "Can you imagine Filch with this in his back pocket?"
Ginny exaggerated a shudder. "Don't. That's worse than any curse we've studied."
We laughed again; hers ended a beat before mine. Then she slowed. Her shoulders tightened, and she drew in her breath.
"Still," she murmured quietly, "funny they wait until seventh year to teach that. Do you reckon it's because they think you're only just now responsible enough not to abuse it?"
I shut the book with a soft thunk and tucked it under my arm. "Could be. Or maybe they're worried I'd use it to hunt whoever keeps nicking the last treacle tarts."
She smirked, not entirely convinced.
"Or," she added after a pause, "they assume you couldn't have handled it before. That you weren't ready. Too young. Too reckless."
I nodded. "Or they reckon I'm old enough now, so if I get myself into trouble, that's on me."
"Cheery thought," she said dryly.
We kept walking.
After a few moments, she turned to me. "Honestly, what do you like about Defence so much?"
I opened my mouth to give a flippant answer, something harmless and maybe funny like, "because I'm good at it, because it's better than Arithmancy, because it involves movement and not sitting with a quill."
She was looking at me properly now, so there was no point pretending I did not understand what she was saying.
Truthfully, I wanted to tell her it was the only thing that might actually keep me alive.
I'd been learning to fight not for glory or grades but because not knowing would have meant dying. Defence was not just a subject for me; it was survival.
I didn't say any of that. I shrugged slowly. "It's logical, I suppose," I kept my voice even. "There is a threat and a response. Put in the time and practise, and it becomes second nature."
Ginny watched me quietly, trying to read what I wasn't saying.
"It feels satisfying," I added. "There's no guesswork. Either your spell lands or it doesn't; either you block it or you don't. You can't fake it."
She nodded slowly, still looking at me. "So it is honest, in a way."
"Yeah," I agreed. "Exactly that."
After a pause, I asked, "What about you? What don't you like about it?"
She tilted her head and furrowed her brow. "I hate that it reminds me the world outside the castle isn't safe. Defence is not just for N.E.W.Ts or duelling clubs. It's for real life."
I glanced at her; her eyes had gone distant. She went on, "I love casting spells and getting them right, but there's always this part of me that thinks we're only learning this because people out there want to hurt us. That's what makes it heavy."
That hit me; it was a feeling I knew well. The weight of having to be ready, not because it's clever but because someone might be waiting for you to fail.
I looked at the textbook in my arms and, for once, was reluctant to open it. "Yeah," I whispered. "Me too."
We didn't speak for a little while after that. The quiet sat between us steadily, the kind that made my chest seem tight because I didn't wish to break it just to fill the space.
I walked beside Ginny, the weight of the Defence textbook familiar against my arm, though I'd barely noticed it anymore. The corridor curved gently ahead of us. I could feel the warmth from the windows on one side of my face; it made my skin feel warm and my breathing slow a little.
Then, just before the doors to the Great Hall came into view, Ginny bumped my shoulder lightly with hers, and the contact caused my stomach to clench for a moment.
"You'll have to teach me that Appare-whatsit spell sometime," she remarked, her mouth tugging up in a smirk, and her eyes looked tired beneath it.
I matched the look with one of my own. "Only if you swear not to use it to track my movements," I answered.
She gave me an expression of pure mischief. "No promises, Potter. Sounds like it'd be useful for making sure you're not sneaking off to the kitchens without me."
I laughed softly, and we stepped into the clamor and warmth of the hall. I felt the usual pull of the magic in the air; the wards shifted faintly at the entrance, as though they were checking everyone who walked through.
Lunch passed in a blur of chatter, cutlery clinking against plates, and the layered noise of people speaking over each other. I wasn't really listening to any of them. Every so often I caught a snippet—someone discussing an essay in Transfiguration, a rumour about Peeves setting off a dungbomb in the fifth-floor girls' loo. My focus kept drifting, as if my mind was reaching for Ginny even when she was right there beside me, eating quickly, talking to Luna across the table, and nudging my leg whenever she noticed me staring at nothing.
Eventually, the food started vanishing from the platters; the plates melted away like smoke, and the hum of the hall softened as students began drifting off to their next classes. Ginny nudged me gently with her elbow.
"What've you got after this?" she asked, slinging her bag over one shoulder and standing in a graceful movement.
I held up my Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook, waving it in front of her with mock ceremony. "Care to guess?"
She wrinkled her nose. "Oh, let me think—your absolute favourite."
"Obviously."
She rolled her eyes but didn't look annoyed. There was a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You're grinning as if someone just found a galleon under his pillow."
I shrugged, not bothering to hide it. "I enjoy it," I told her. "Always have."
Which was true. Despite everything, even the tension that still showed when Remus glanced at me for too long, like we hadn't quite gone back to what we were before, I still looked forward to those lessons. There was something steady about them. Predictable, in a good way.
Ginny peered at me more closely. "You're not just saying that to impress Lupin, are you?"
I raised an eyebrow. "If I wanted to, I'd show up to class without appearing as if I'd fallen into my trunk."
That earned a laugh. She gave a half-hearted shake of her head, then turned to leave. "Tell Professor Lupin I said hi," she called again over her shoulder, not loudly, more like she preferred only me to hear.
I didn't trust my voice, so I only nodded and felt the heat crawl up the back of my neck. Bloody brilliant.
By the time I got to the Defence classroom, it was already half full. The usual murmur of voices filled the air, punctuated by the occasional thud of a rucksack hitting the floor or someone testing their wand under their breath. The scent of charred wood and something faintly metallic lingered in the room.
The classroom itself was one of the better ones at Hogwarts; spacious, high-ceilinged, and filled with light from the tall windows that overlooked the edge of the Forest and the glass domes of the greenhouses. The window shimmered slightly, reacting to the protective charms tied to the castle. Rows of worn wooden benches curled around a raised duelling platform, giving the place the feel of an arena more than a lecture hall. The runes carved into the edges flickered with a pale glow, showing they'd been reset since the last lesson. It was fitting, really.
Defence was one of the few NEWT subjects that continued to bring together students from every house. I spotted Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott sitting alongside each other near the back, already deep in quiet conversation. Terry Boot and Padma Patil had staked out a place at the front, scribbling in their notebooks as if the lesson had started. Seamus and Dean, naturally, were somewhere in the middle, joking loudly with Neville, who'd just come pelting in, hair mussed and tie askew. From the looks of him, he'd sprinted. A few loose leaves clung to Neville's robes, still twitching from leftover Herbology magic.
Behind them, Lavender kept glancing at her reflection in the window while Parvati was fiddling with her wand, casting little sparks.
And then there was Draco Malfoy. He sat straight-backed at the far end of one bench, flanked by Pansy Parkinson and Zabini, both of whom seemed more interested in the room than each other.
I took my usual seat between Dean and Neville. Dean gave me a nod, his wand already twirling between his fingers.
"Looking forward to today's hexes, Harry?" he called over, his grin quick and easy.
"Always," I replied, but my eyes had already moved past him toward the door, and I didn't have to wait long.
The air shifted, and I knew he was close.
Remus entered without ceremony, his robes trailing slightly behind him, that same faded scarf looped carelessly round his neck. He wore it even when he didn't seem to notice. The scarf smelled faintly of old fireplaces and lemon polish; it left a dry, woolly scent in the air when he moved. His hair had grown longer over the summer, streaked with more grey than I remembered, and the lines at the corners of his mouth had deepened. But he continued to act the same way: deliberate.
He scanned the room once. His gaze lingered on me for a beat, not long enough to make a scene.
I straightened my spine automatically, my quill already in my hand. Whatever there was between us, I wouldn't reveal any lingering issues here.
Remus stood on the duelling platform, arms crossed loosely over his chest, the afternoon sunlight slanting in behind him. His face was calm, his voice even, but there was a subtle weight in his tone that made everyone straighten up.
"Seventh-year Defence isn't just about how many spells you know," he warned, sweeping his gaze across the room. "It's about knowing when to use them and when not to. There's no merit in hexing someone who's already on the ground. And there is no glory in protecting yourself if it puts another person in danger."
He turned and flicked his wand at the blackboard. Chalk rose on its own with a faint hiss and traced letters in looping script:
Defensive Spellcasting: Reflex. Control. Intention.
Offensive Spellcasting: Precision. Power. Restraint.
I watched the words form, my wand resting loosely between my fingers. There was something about the way he put it—intent and not show—that stuck. More than anything, Remus always made it about why. It had never been enough simply to throw a shield up. You had to mean it. Understand what you were protecting and why it mattered.
His eyes moved across the benches—over Terry Boot, still scribbling notes; over Parvati and Seamus, who'd just finished whispering something to each other that earned a muffled laugh; over Hannah Abbott, who sat quietly with her hands folded.
Then, his gaze fell on me.
This time I did not look away.
"This is the year you will test your instincts. Not only in this classroom, but far beyond it," Remus told us. "So today we start with close-quarters duelling: shielding, counter-curses, disarmament and disruption charms. Pair off, spread out; wands at the ready."
My pulse picked up. It was not fear exactly, but my muscles went tight and my senses felt sharper. I could taste the small tang of recent hexes on my tongue, and the floor hummed faintly beneath my boots where old duels had scarred the wood. I liked this kind of magic, the kind that forced you to be present. There wasn't time for overthinking, no room for hesitation. It demanded everything you had and gave nothing back unless you earned it.
Then again, it was also the enchantment that felt far too familiar. The sort of thing that made your muscles remember things before your brain caught up.
Remus clapped once. "Partners!" he ordered.
Seamus dropped into place opposite me almost immediately, cracking his knuckles with an entirely unnecessary amount of flair.
"Try not to set my robes on fire," I muttered, adjusting my grip on my wand.
He grinned. "Only if you don't mind a bit of singe."
I sighed.
Across the room, wands lifted. There was a moment before the first incantations began flying. Not the dramatic sort from proper duels, just slow, measured practice. Shield Charms, Disarming Spells, the occasional jinx.
Remus moved through us without drawing attention, stepping quietly between the pairs and watching each attempt.
"A Shield Charm does not need force," he instructed as he stepped behind Parvati and nudged her elbow gently. "It needs clarity: wand, will, intent. That is all. Extra movement only wastes time."
I watched him out of the corner of my eye. I'd always tried to make my Shield Charms sharp and deliberate, had practised till my wrist ached some nights, but he made it look effortless. No power wasted. No energy flung in the wrong direction.
I cast Protego. The charm snapped into place with a small thud of resistance I felt along my forearm. The shield held briefly, a faint ripple of light across the air, then collapsed.
For a second, the warmth of the charm washed over me, a soft pressure where the magic sat before it faded.
Remus passed me. "Better," he murmured, not pausing.
He didn't look back.
We moved on to offensive work. Basic duelling spells; stunners, jinxes and mild hexes. Nothing dangerous for classroom practice. The emphasis was on timing, precision and control. There was no point in showy magic; flair did not matter.
Remus paired off with one of the Hufflepuffs, Ernie McMillan, to show a rapid disarm-deflect combination. And that was the first time I saw it properly.
He did not move like a teacher. He moved with the measured economy of someone who had been in actual fights.
All spells were cast with absolute efficiency; no wasted energy, no exaggerated movements. His stance was solid, grounded. Nothing about it looked like a performance; every motion aimed at a result. It was the magic used in life-or-death situations.
I swallowed hard.
A part of me wanted to look away. Another part couldn't.
"Harry," he beckoned, and I started slightly. "Would you step forward?"
I didn't hesitate too much. I slid my wand into position, heart ticking up as I walked to the centre of the platform. My palms were dry. My mouth felt thick.
Remus faced the class. "Harry will show a disarming chain. I'll resist. Pay attention to his timing; he'll need to read more than my wand."
We bowed once quickly. My mind went back to the practised duels I had with him before and all the spells I had once fired when my life depended on them.
This wasn't that.
It seemed familiar. I raised my wand, and he matched my stance.
I cast Expelliarmus, quick and sharp, but he was faster. I felt the spell leave my muscles and taste the copper at the back of my mouth as the air shivered from the force. A Protego snapped into place, and he followed immediately with a non-verbal stunner that I barely dodged. I fired in response instinctively—missed. He sidestepped and countered.
Third spell—I changed tactics. Switched to Expulso, low and aimed at his footing.
He moved, but not fast enough. The edge of the charm clipped his defence. He raised a warding enchantment, and I saw, just briefly, the faintest quirk of his mouth. Approval. Maybe.
We continued for ten more seconds. Spell, block, dodge, redirect. Then I noticed it. A fraction of a second too long in his pivot. I cast Expelliarmus again, and this time it struck home.
His wand flew from his hand and landed with a dull clatter on the wooden boards. The wood left a faint scorch mark on the boards, and a smudge of old hex-muck clung to the wand handle. Silence filled the platform; it was complete and immediate.
Polite applause followed, with a few impressed murmurs.
Neither of us smiled.
"Good work," he acknowledged evenly.
He walked over, picked up his wand and turned it in his hand, then passed it to me briefly. "Here," he murmured, "see this groove just below the runes? That's from constant Shielding Charms. Years of it. You can tell the wand's history if you know what to look for."
I nodded, handing it back carefully.
Something in his voice carried a weariness I hadn't noticed before, the sort that doesn't come from teaching.
"Return to your place," he ordered, without inflection.
I returned to my bench, pulse still hammering. My hands were shaking slightly as I sat down.
We finished with rotation drills. One partner cast while the other blocked, shifted angles and forced movement. No static defence.
Ginny arrived halfway through. She said nothing, leaning against the doorway with her arms folded and her satchel slung over a shoulder. Although her hair was tied back, loose strands fell across her face as she watched.
I noticed her the moment she showed up; my shoulders tightened, and I straightened without realising.
She caught my eye and lifted an eyebrow. Didn't smile.
Remus gave no sign of noticing her.
Eventually, the bell rang. He swept his wand, and the chalkboard cleared itself; faint chalk dust drifted in the sunlight.
"Next week," he announced, his voice carrying, "we will cover layered shielding and elemental casting. Chapters twelve to fifteen. Come prepared."
That was it.
People filtered out slowly, breathing hard from the sparring. Some stopped to thank him. A few looked dazed. Most appeared tired.
I lingered for a moment near the doorway. His gaze remained downward. He was turned away, sorting a stack of books with one hand while his wand flicked now and then with a small, absent rhythm. He was not being rude; he simply seemed distant and absorbed in something else.
I waited a single beat longer than I should have, then I left. The door clicked shut behind me and, for a second, I stood in the corridor listening for a sound that did not come.