Hogwarts in late October meant crowded corridors with careful footwork for the wet flagstones and voices held low out of respect for prefects and teachers.
The sky was flat grey. The air had a bite to it; my breath came out as a cloud whenever I walked outside. Leaves stuck damp to the paths, and broom varnish smelled sharp close to the pitch. The lawns along the lake were rust-brown in places, and the footpaths stayed wet long after rain. Inside, the torchlight looked duller than earlier in the week. The flagstones remained cold despite the fires. The castle gave off the scent of wood smoke and soaked wool; faintly of roasting pumpkins near the kitchens.
At lunch there was a rumour that the group who had gone out for the Harpies' open trials, and a few others who had tried different clubs, had come back. There was no notice from staff, only a Ravenclaw saying he had seen Terry Boot carrying his broom up the third-floor stairs. By the end of the meal, most tables were repeating some version of it.
I had not noticed any of them. Nothing in the corridors, nor in the Great Hall. I thought they were either in their dormitories asleep or taking side passages to miss the noise.
Or one of them was keeping out of my way.
I kept my gaze down and hurried. It was simpler. If Ginny were back, she would tell me. She had been direct with me from the start and did not waste time on hints. Then again, she could have taken my silence for what it was. I had not sent an owl. I had not written a single line. No note. No visits to the Owlery. I had given her nothing.
She did not sit still for long. She moved with a clear aim and did not wander. People here knew her by name. She had a captain's job to do, work to finish, and plans that did not involve waiting around for someone who could not decide what to say. She might have chosen to put her energy elsewhere.
That thought stayed with me from the Great Hall to the portrait hole. Portraits retreated further into their frames, and Nearly Headless Nick moved through the kitchens more often.
The Gryffindor common room was busy enough to feel lived in but not loud yet. The flames gave steady heat. A chess set clicked quietly on one side table. Someone laughed at a soft joke near the noticeboard and then hushed themselves.
I crossed the room without thinking, heading for the fire. A Quidditch lad caught my sleeve. I thought it was Ritchie Coote; off a broom, it was harder to tell the team at a glance.
"This is for you," he said. He passed me a folded bit of parchment and turned around to his mates, who had started a round of Exploding Snap. A card popped and hissed near the grate.
I unfolded the note. The parchment felt warm from someone's hand, with a faint smell of ink.
Just got back. Can we talk tomorrow? Ginny
The handwriting was firm and quick, the tails of the letters cut short, and the 'y' in her name sharp at the end. I recognised it immediately from a list she had written on the common room table a week ago.
My heart knocked a few hard beats. My fingers trembled around the paper, and my knees went soft for a second. The hall noise narrowed to background; I read the line twice, like it might change if I blinked. I studied it a third time because my brain did not want to move on.
She wanted to talk.
She had not decided to leave it.
I had not realised how much I needed that until I saw it on the page. The fact that she had chosen to send anything told me more than I liked to admit. I wanted to answer straightaway with a time and a place. I pictured the Owlery, the pitch steps, the corner near the portrait of the lady with the terrier, anywhere she named. My legs did not move. I stood with the note open in my fingers and watched the ink as if it might still be wet.
I folded it carefully, so the crease did not cut through her name, and slid it into my pocket. The paper warmed under my palm.
I did not send an owl. Owls travel through the Owlery, where half the school and some staff check deliveries. Letters leave a trail. If anyone asked why I sent a message, they might force explanations I did not want to give. With the memory work in the background and the Order watching certain movements, drawing that kind of attention was reckless. It was safer to meet her in person.
I held my hands to the fire and felt the heat soak through my gloves. I kept my palm against the pocket for a second longer, just to be certain the note was still there.
Near Halloween, the house tables had more pumpkins about, small carved lanterns hung on the noticeboard, and once the candles were lit, the ceiling looked like a low, dull sky.
Dinner smelled of roast meat and warm spices, and for the first time all week my shoulders loosened. The noise in the Great Hall rose and fell in steady waves; cutlery touched plates, goblets scraped wood, and the candles above gave off a soft crackle. I realised I was not drifting the way I had been since Monday. My thoughts kept returning to Ginny. I heard her voice in my head exactly as it sounded near the riverbank. Her jaw set as I pictured it when she decided, and she laughed unexpectedly when she found something funny. I let the memory stay. I allowed myself to want it. The sudden return of that feeling unsettled me because it came so quickly.
Across the staff table, Remus glanced at me now and then. His face was calm. The skin at the corners of his eyes had smoothed a fraction; he watched me for longer, cautious. He had kept a close watch on me all week—not fussy, just careful.
He checked the time, bunched his napkin and spoke low to the Gryffindor prefect on duty. The prefect crossed the hall and handed me a folded square of parchment. The paper felt warm where he'd held it. Staff used prefects for quiet messages when they wanted something handled without going through the Owlery.
I had a quick mix of interest and nerves.
I opened it. Remus's handwriting was neat and even, the lines straight devoid of a guide.
Meet me tomorrow evening in my quarters. Dinner around seven. We should talk.
The message was brief and firm. He expected me to come on time. My chest tightened as I read it a second time. We had not sat down properly together in weeks, not since the raised voices about Ginny, not since the quiet that followed and the look on his face that had stayed with me for days. Seeing the words on the page turned all of that into something I would have to confront again. I could hear his tone in the tidy loops: steady, patient, expecting me to show up.
I looked up. He was already watching my reaction. There was no smile, only a small nod. I gave a quick nod in return. My hand shook once, and I forced it flat against the parchment.
Remus tipped his head a fraction and turned back to the other teachers.
I folded Remus's note and slid it into my robe pocket beside Ginny's letter. Together they were heavier than either alone. I considered rehearsing lines for tomorrow: answers, explanations, anything that might steer the talk the right way. Then I felt the same old wish to avoid it, to let the day swallow it up, so it did not happen. That would not work. Remus did not ask unless it mattered. I could not pretend I had missed the message.
He had done more than anyone else to get me here. I told myself he took the blame as his own, but that was my hope, not fact. I could see it in the quiet of his face; he gave no anger, only a steady look that made me question whether he blamed me, himself, or both. He did not set out to hurt me; he never did. He had said what he thought I needed to hear. I was not angry with him for that. His first responsibility was to keep me safe, and that task left little space for anything that might pull me off course, including a girl with red hair and a smile that shut me up for a second.
By Saturday morning, the ease I had felt at dinner had gone. My chest became tight, and my mouth was dry. I lay on my side while the dormitory emptied around me. Footsteps thudded on the stairs, the door hinges gave a soft complaint, and then the room settled. I stayed where I was, the curtains half-open, light from the window falling in a narrow band across the duvet. Ginny's note was visible on top of the covers. I smoothed the crease flat and read the line until I could say it without looking. The words remained the same each time. The only change was within me.
I wanted to see her. The feeling was strong, but I did not know if I should.
Remus had put more trust in me than anyone else. He had given me a roof when I did not have one and a home when the world did not hold a place for me. He'd been more watchful since last week's incident at the Room of Requirement; he had said little, but I could tell he measured every step I took. Now I weighed that against a talk with a girl I barely knew. On paper, it looked simple. In my chest it was not.
I turned the note over. The middle of the parchment was smooth, but the edges where someone cut it were rougher. The ink had soaked in cleanly, with no smudges under the letters. I traced the tail of her y with my thumb and pulled my hand back as if the touch might rub it off.
I ran through the risks: attention, questions, the wrong person overhearing, and a harmless comment getting repeated until it reached someone who should not know. I'd lived by rules like that for years. They had kept me alive. The list washed away when I pictured standing in front of her and speaking.
Talking to her did not feel wild or careless. It felt necessary. Despite it ending awkwardly. Even if she was only being polite, or if she told me to leave it.
My feet found the cold boards as I sat up. I rubbed my hands over my face and forced three slow breaths, in and out, until the tight, jumpy feeling in my chest eased enough to think. I pulled a jumper on and checked my hair in the mirror, though I knew it would not change how stiff I felt.
I did not know how to be the person she thought I was. Most days, I was still figuring out which person I could be. That was the truth of it. But there was one thing I could say with confidence. If I ignored her today, it would stay with me for a long time. I would look for her without meaning to and remember that I had stepped back when all I needed to do was step forward.
Even though it turned out to be a mistake, or even if I'd have to answer for it tomorrow, I would go.
I had a strong sense she already knew I would.
Saturday passed slowly, one hour after another, with no part of it holding my attention. I sat at a table in the library at the very end and told myself I was working on Charms. Concealment Charms of the Modern Age lay closed at my elbow. The spine was stiff under my fingertips and smelled faintly of old glue. I had filled my notes with short, aimless lines and small shapes in the margins. Quills scratched all around me, pages turned, and the draught from the tall windows cooled the back of my neck. Madam Pince set a stack of returned books on the desk with the corners aligned.
Every few minutes I checked my right pocket to make sure the folded scrap of parchment was still there.
It was her note.
Seven words. That was all.
Just got back. Can we talk tomorrow?
There was no time, place, or instructions. Only the slant of her handwriting. It read as urgent, and the next day had arrived.
I told myself to be sensible. Plan it. Find her first. Choose somewhere quiet so I did not miss whatever she meant. Then Remus's voice returned the way it always did when I was about to do something careless: "Be careful. Be smart. Do not rush into anything reckless." None of that matched my chest when I thought about Ginny. My breathing went shallow, and my fingers would not stay still.
By early evening, I decided she would not come. I pictured her waiting somewhere else and getting cross that I had not worked it out, as if I should somehow know where to be without being told. It was a stupid way to think, but I could not stop running it through my head.
I gave myself a reason to move. I would drop my bag in Gryffindor Tower and then go to dinner with Remus. That was it. Nothing more.
Behind me, the portrait swung shut. The common room was quiet. The mantel clock read half-past six. Most people were already in the Great Hall. The fire burned low in the grate and gave off a steady orange light that reached the nearest chairs. Warmth touched my shins. The brass fender held a thin line of soot along the top edge. The room smelled of smoke, wool, and polish. Near the hearth, two younger students played a slow game of wizard's chess; the white knight tapped his foot before he slid across the board, and the black rook muttered when it was forced to move. A scarf hung off the arm of an armchair, and someone had left a partially eaten apple on the table by the window.
And then I saw her.
Ginny sat on the side of the sofa next to the window with a book face-down beside her. She did not call out, wave, or lift her head the moment I stepped in and met her eyes.
My breath stopped for a second.
She wore jeans and a Holyhead Harpies jumper that was a size too big. The sleeves covered half of her hands. Her hair was damp and lay in straight strands near her cheeks. Her trainers were under the low table. She looked comfortable and unhurried. She was not trying to present anything. I stopped noticing the rest of the room because she was simply herself.
"Thought I'd spot you here," she remarked calmly.
"I meant to find you," I told her, my hand gripping the bag strap. "I didn't know where to start."
"This works," she added, with a small curve to her mouth. "I come here after training most nights."
The tone had a dry edge, but there was no bite in it. It was easy the first time this week. Some of the tightness in my shoulders eased.
I crossed the room at a steady pace, keeping my bag strap still in my hand. My legs felt stiff from sitting too long in the library.
"Mind if I sit?" I asked.
She slid down from the arm to the cushion and left space beside her. "I didn't come here to be alone."
I sat, leaving a clear gap but close enough to feel the heat of the fire on my forearms and the warmth of her jumper at my side. The closeness raised the temperature under my collar. My pulse tapped at my throat in a way I could not ignore.
She looked into the embers and then down at her hands. She pushed one sleeve back and pinched at a hangnail, then let the sleeve fall again. We did not speak. We sat quietly. It did not feel forced, and both of us seemed to check our thoughts before speaking.
"I got your note," I murmured, keeping my voice low.
"I thought you might," she replied. "I kept it short so you wouldn't overthink it."
"That was optimistic," I admitted. "I'm very good at overthinking."
"I noticed," she commented, and the corner of her mouth moved again.
I set my bag down at my feet and slid my hands together to stop them fidgeting. I saw the clock behind us shift to the next minute, heard the soft crack from the fire as a coal settled, and saw a chess piece across the room mutter quietly when someone took it.
"I didn't reply," I confessed. "I should have."
"You weren't obliged to," she assured me.
She turned her head fully then. Her eyes were steady and direct. There was no attempt to soften what she wanted to learn.
"You all right?" she asked.
"Mostly," I answered after a breath. "First few weeks. Lots to take in."
Her gaze did not move. "You look distracted."
"That's very specific," I remarked.
"It's accurate," she countered. "I know what that looks like."
I swallowed. The skin on my palms felt dry. I rubbed them once on my trousers and let my fingers rest on my knees.
"I've been trying to keep up," I explained. "Classes, people, where anything is. That is… new."
"That is not all of it," she observed, not unkindly.
My answer was not immediate. I watched the fire and listened to the crackle. I felt the rough weave of the sofa under my fingertips and the faint vibration of footsteps on the stairs above.
"I'm used to keeping quiet and out of sight," I said. "It's a habit and difficult to stop."
She nodded. "So, don't quit suddenly." Try not to disappear when you don't have to.
I exhaled slowly and tried to smile. "I'll give it a go."
"Good," she approved. She sat back and rested her shoulder against the cushion.
"I'm not great at this," I admitted after a moment.
"I can see that," she teased, and the warmth in it took the sting away. She lifted her book and slid a finger inside to hold her place without looking. "We can have a proper conversation, or we can stay quiet. I'm fine with either. I wanted only to see you."
Her words were plain. No game in them, no push. My chest eased. I let out a small breath.
"Talking is probably better," I decided. "Otherwise, I will think myself in circles and walk out like an idiot."
"We can avoid that," she promised. "Start simple. How's Defence?"
"Good," I answered. "Remus is careful and clear. He makes it feel possible."
"You call him Remus," she noted, not pressing.
"He's my guardian," I explained. "It's strange using 'Professor' outside lessons."
She absorbed that with a quick nod. "He looks tired but kind."
"He is both," I agreed.
"Fine," she concluded, satisfied. She shifted her weight and sat a fraction closer, still leaving space. "Next question. Do you fly?"
I felt my mouth pull into a small smile. "When I can. Not often enough."
"Trials soon," she mentioned. "I'm not asking you to join anything. I only like to know who is competent to keep a broom in the air."
"I can," I responded. "I'd prefer to stay out of sight for now."
"That's sensible," she agreed. "You're still welcome to come and watch. You might need a coat."
We both looked toward the window. The glass had a faint film of condensation. The sky outside had turned fully dark. A few late students crossed the lawn at a run with their cloaks held tight. The wind pressed against the panes and then let go.
The clock behind us chimed the quarter. The sound was indistinct and even. Footsteps sounded on the girls' stairs and faded again.
She looked back at me. "So," she began, "are we going to make this a habit, or was this a one-off because I wrote first?"
"I don't know yet," I said. "I want to. Figuring out how to do that without messing up anything else is my goal."
"Then we go slowly," she suggested. "You answer the questions you can. You keep the rest until you're ready. I am fine with that."
I watched her face to check whether she meant it. She did. I felt my shoulders drop a little more.
"Tomorrow after dinner," she proposed. "Ten minutes in the common room or a walk down to the pitch. Your call."
"Common room to start," I decided. "Then we'll see."
"Done," she confirmed.
We fell silent again. I could hear the slight scrape of her nail on the knit of her sleeve and the faint hiss from the fire each time a log shifted. Her jumper smelled clean, similar to soap and fresh air from outside. A painted monk above the bookcase cleared his throat once and turned his face to the wall.
"Do you train a lot?" I asked, breaking the quiet.
"Two afternoons a week," she replied at once. "Most weekends too. It's hard. But I like it."
"That sounds intense," I muttered. I could not imagine anything better. "Do you genuinely enjoy it?"
She nodded, eyes steady. "I do. It can be tiring and painful, but it helps me to think. It makes the rest of the day easier to handle."
I wanted to ask what she meant and why she needed it to be simpler, but the plain way she said it stopped me. I gave a curt nod instead.
She shifted, tucked one leg under, and rested an elbow on the arm of the sofa. "What about you?" she asked, voice even, gaze direct. "Have you joined anything so far?"
There was no pressure in her tone, just interest, which somehow made it harder to answer.
"Not yet," I answered, slow on purpose. "Still deciding."
She hummed quietly, and shortly thereafter, leaned back and folded her arms. "Fair enough," she allowed. "These things take time. You shouldn't rush them."
Her eyes came back to mine, focused now. "Tell me about yourself."
My stomach tightened. It was the one thing I had hoped she would not ask since the moment I read her note.
"What would you want to know?" I asked. I kept my voice low.
She gave a small shrug and a quick, teasing smile. "Start with the obvious. Why Hogwarts?"
In my head, I had practiced the answer more than I'd like. I took a breath. "I needed a change," I explained. "I got tired of moving. My plan was to try staying in one place."
Ginny raised an eyebrow, but she did not press. "Fair," she remarked after a pause, turning a fraction to look out of the window at the dark glass. "A lot of families are doing the same. The last few years have put people on edge."
"Exactly," I agreed. My voice sounded steady. It did not match my chest, which felt tight and hot. That answer was safe. It avoided the rest.
She still did not push. She did not ask where I had been, or who had raised me, or why I could not say more. Instead, she tipped her head, watched me for a moment, and said, light again, "If I'm asking you for the truth about you, I should give you some about me."
I shifted on the cushion and sat straighter. My hands were warm against the seam of the sofa; someone's chess piece clacked on wood at the far table.
"Alright," she began, settling more comfortably. "Basics first. There are nine of us. I'm the youngest. I am outnumbered most days. The house is noisy from breakfast until everyone goes to bed."
"Nine?" I echoed.
"Yes, nine," she confirmed, grinning. "Mum and Dad, six older brothers, and me. Mum keeps the Burrow in order. She knows where everybody is and when. She keeps meals on time and makes sure no one turns up at the wrong fireplace. Dad works at the Ministry, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. It is exactly what the name suggests, and he comes home with stories most nights."
"Sounds intense," I admitted, and I smiled before I could stop it.
"Demanding work," she said with a small shrug. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and her voice softened. "Bill is the eldest, and he's married to Fleur. She's kind and very direct. He's calm. People rely on him. He took me flying when I was five. I refused gloves, so he made me wear socks on my hands."
"Socks?" I blurted.
"They slipped off in mid-air," she said, laughing. "Bill went white. Mum said she was ready to hex him when we landed."
I grinned.
"Charlie's next," she continued. "He works with dragons in Romania. Sometimes, something scorches the edges of his letters, which arrive late. Mum says it's dragon fire. I think he forgets the time. He's brave. Everyone in the family looks up to him."
I kept my eyes on the flames and tried to picture a singed envelope on the table.
"Percy," she said, letting out a breath through her nose. "Rules, parchment, and lists are things he likes to do. He's not married. He makes plans for the week and then plans for the plans. We were once told to prepare brief dinner speeches for guests. My face went red, and I couldn't look at anyone."
I chuckled and shook my head.
Her voice steadied as she spoke, warmer with each name.
"Fred and George. The twins. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes is exactly what it sounds like. Explosions, pranks, mess, and a till that rings all day. They test things at home more often than Mum likes. She has banned a few boxes from the kitchen cupboard, but not all."
I could picture it in plain detail. Smoke in a small room. Fuses caught with a sharp hiss. Firecrackers spit sparks across a table. Laughter filled the space and left people coughing and smiling. It was strange how solid that image felt. No alarms. No danger. Just noise that came from jokes.
"Then there's Ron," she added, looking amused. "He's still at Hogwarts; you've probably seen him. On his plate, he piles food and then goes back for more. He is a good bloke. Loyal. Stubborn. He tells too many jokes. Not everyone enjoys them."
"I'll keep that in mind," I replied.
Her grin widened a little, and she shifted closer by a few centimetres without making a point of it. I felt the cushion dip and the brief brush of her sleeve against mine. My hands went still on my knees.
"And then there's me," she finished. She tipped her head against the sofa cushion for a second and settled again. "Ginny. The youngest. I grew up with lots of movement and plenty of talking, so I learnt to speak up to be heard and step away fast when trouble started." She gave me a warm, steady smile. It felt as though she understood I was holding a few things back. "That is the short version. That's all for now, but there's more."
I leant back and took it in. It was the first time I had listened to her set it out like that. "That's a lot," I murmured. "Nine people, all different."
She nodded with a small lift of her chin. "Yes. Loud. Busy. Clever. Tiring. I wouldn't change it."
I tried to place it in my head. "So you really are the youngest. That must have been intense."
"It was," she agreed. "It can be a great deal to handle, but it also makes you learn quickly. The others had already attempted nearly everything by the time I got there."
I nodded. "You don't seem put off by much."
"Not by most things," she replied. There was a clear look in her eyes that did not waver. "When something matters, I find a way through. If that doesn't work, I try a different approach."
I could not help the smile that spread across my face. "You've had a lot of practice."
"Since I was born," she quipped, with a straight face that broke into a small smile. Then her voice dropped a little. "It isn't always simple. Being last can mean no one notices you unless you do something that gets attention. Sometimes that's good. Sometimes it's not."
My stomach flipped. "I know that feeling," I mumbled. "If nothing I do matters, I feel like people will look through me."
Her expression softened, and she shifted slightly closer. The cushion dipped, and her sleeve brushed my arm. "Harry, most people have parts of their life that hurt," she told me. "It doesn't make them less capable or less worthy."
I searched her face. "You really mean that?"
"I do," she affirmed, with a firm nod. "I have seen people fall apart. I've watched them put routines back in place. It takes time. It counts."
Something loosened in my chest. Heat from the fire reached my legs, and the tightness I had carried since the morning eased a little. I breathed out slowly and managed a small, clean smile. "I needed to hear that."
"Good," she replied. "I don't give speeches. I say the thing and leave it there."
I gave a quiet laugh and sat back an inch. "Noted. I like that. It works for me."
She leant back as well and folded her arms, easy in her seat and sure of herself without showing off. "Right. I've talked enough about my lot," she said. The corner of her mouth lifted. "Your turn."
The question carried more weight for me than she had likely intended. I paused and sorted through the answers. People did not ask me like that. Not without a reason.
"Well," I began slowly and carefully. "I'm staying at Hogwarts because I wanted some steadiness. I needed a place that could be a home for a while. Somewhere I could breathe without watching the door."
Her eyes softened. The teasing look was gone. She gave a slow nod. "I understand. That's not selfish. That's surviving."
The word hit its mark, clear and direct. It was the word I used in my head and did not say out loud. I glanced at her. She displayed no pity in her expression. There was no prying. Her face showed that she seemed to know all the answers.
"And you?" I asked. "Do you get that here? A sense of home?"
"Mostly," she answered after a temporary pause. "The Burrow is home. Hogwarts is different. There are rules, ghosts in the corridors, and people who expect things from you. You can find your place if you keep at it."
I nodded. It was strange how easy this was for her. "I think I'm starting to see that."
She watched me for a second, then glanced at the hearth. The flames had settled into a low, steady burn. From the far table came the scrape of a chess piece on wood and a minor argument that ended with a sigh.
Before I could stop myself, I asked, "Ginny… I don't understand. Why me?"
Her brows drew in, and she tipped her head. "What do you mean?"
My palms had gone damp. "I'm saying… Hermione mentioned someone." My voice thinned at the end.
Recognition showed on her face. "Michael?" She repeated, more exasperated than upset. "Honestly, Harry, people aren't secretive here. Hogwarts students pass on everything. It gets old."
I shifted on the cushion. "Well… Hermione said you hadn't really spent time with other boys. So I wondered, why me?"
Ginny leant forward, her voice steady but lower. "Michael wasn't just a boyfriend," she explained. "He was my closest friend. We understood each other in ways that are not simple to put into words. I didn't think anyone else could take that place." She paused and looked at me. "Then I met you."
Pressure rose in my chest. "Am I meant to be the same as him?" I asked, quiet enough that it almost got lost under the fire.
She let out a small laugh and shook her head. "No. Not at all. You're nothing like him. But there's something about you. With you, I can sit still and not work at it. It feels calm. You don't force anything. You are yourself."
Heat reached my face. I chewed the inside of my cheek. "Do you think Michael would mind? That you feel like that about me?" I checked, barely above a whisper.
Her features softened. "No," she replied, with a small smile. "If he cared about me, and he did, he would wish me to be happy. Wherever he is, he'd want that."
We did not speak for a moment. The common room sounds remained soft and far.
She leant back and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek; her gaze still on mine. "I wanted you to know," she told me. "I didn't want to leave it unsaid."
I swallowed. My chest stayed tight, and my mouth seemed dry. "I'm glad you did," I managed. "I mean that."
She smiled, not the careful kind people used to be polite, but warm and easy, and it lit her eyes.
We sat for a long time. Neither of us spoke. The fire settled into a low glow; the heat reached my shins, and the fabric of the sofa felt rough under my palms. I could hear the faint rustle of a book from the far table, and the portrait above the bookcase gave a quiet sniff. My heartbeat thumped evenly against my ribs and made it hard to think past simple facts: she was close, and the light on her jumper showed a line of damp along the cuff.
I wanted to tell something useful. The words did not come. My throat had a tight, blocked feel that stopped sound.
Under the table, her foot pressed lightly against mine. Deliberate. Present.
"You don't have to say anything," she murmured, low and even. "I don't need a speech or a big statement."
A quick laugh slipped out of me and sounded more normal than I expected. "Good," I said. "I'm hopeless at those."
Her grin widened. It held only warmth and that dry humour she used when she knew exactly where she stood. "I noticed," she teased. She tucked one leg beneath her and settled back, easy and sure. "We can sit here, talk when we feel like it, or keep quiet if we want to. That works."
I nodded and let my shoulders drop. The stillness was constant. "Yeah," I said. "I appreciate that."
We sat without speaking. The fire gave short cracks and a soft hiss. Her trainer's sole rubbed the carpet in slight movements. Our breathing settled into a steady pace.
"I am glad you wrote," I admitted at last, keeping my voice low. My fingers pressed the fold of parchment in my pocket. The edge touched my knuckle each time I moved. "Even if I did not know what to do with it at first."
She lifted one shoulder and let it fall. The small smile remained. "I had to," she answered. "Otherwise, I would've kept wondering if you wanted to talk." Her eyes stayed on mine. "I didn't want to wait for anything."
I let a genuine smile show.
We watched the fire. Once or twice she looked across and held my gaze for a second, then went back to the flames. Heat from the grate reached the side of my face. I felt a wish to close the space between us and decided not to. Even without touch, her attention to me did not change.
I knew tomorrow would bring checks and rules again. Remus and the staff would expect care. The castle maintained its own routines that I was still learning. The war work outside school had not ended. I kept those facts in mind.
For now, they stayed there.
"I don't think I've ever sat like this," I mused after a while. "With anyone. Just sitting. No performance. No plan."
Ginny's mouth softened. "It's easier with the perfect person," she said. "Not everyone lets you settle. Some do. When it happens, you can breathe properly and stay put."
The words made immediate sense. I nodded.
"Do you want to play chess?" I offered before I could second-guess. "There's a set by the bookcase."
Ginny's eyes brightened. "All right," she agreed at once. "I haven't played in a few weeks. You can take white."
We brought the nearest set to the low table by the fire. The edge of the board was scuffed. The pawns on each side had chipped base. When I placed the pieces out, the white rook stretched, the black knight rolled its shoulders, and the queens eyed each other in a way that suggested they were ready to get on with it.
"Standard rules?" Ginny asked, tying her hair back with a quick twist.
"Standard," I replied, and moved a pawn two squares.
She answered with a steady centre. The pieces spoke under their breath. My bishop complained about the draught from the window. Her rook told my knight to stand up straight. Ginny's hands were calm and quick. She did not waste time hovering above a square. When she chose, she moved.
We played in near silence at first. I watched her face more than I meant to, reading the tiny changes. A small frown when I blocked a file. A brief lift at the corner of her mouth when she set a simple trap. I kept my focus on the middle. She swung a knight to the edge, then brought it back through a gap I had left open and knocked over my bishop with a single clean thud. The bishop swore and dragged itself off the board, muttering.
"Sorry," she threw in, not sounding sorry at all.
I grinned. "You can keep apologising. I don't mind."
The mantel clock chimed seven-thirty. Heat from the fire reached my knees. Voices from a group near the noticeboard dropped away as they headed for the dormitories. We stayed put. I pressed on the queenside. She kept her king very tidy behind a line of pawns and moved only what she had to.
"Did someone teach you?" I asked, nudging a pawn forward to trade.
"Bill, mostly," she said, picking up the pawn with two fingers and carrying it off as if it had volunteered. "Ron goes on about openings. Bill taught me to watch the person, not only the board."
I tried a minor attack on the dark squares. She ignored it for a pair of moves, then placed a knight where it cut my plan in half. No fuss, no flourish. The knight planted both feet, folded its arms, and told my queen to move along.
"Cheeky," I said, shifting the queen back.
"You left the square free," she argued, eyes on the board. "I only used it."
We traded rooks. Hers went with a barked laugh and a salute. Mine kicked the table leg on the way down. A second-year by the fire snorted. I did not look around. My shirt sleeves were warm now. I rolled them once. My hands had stopped shaking. The simple rhythm of piece, square, capture, and reply pulled breath through my chest in a manner that eased the tight bit that had been living there all week.
At eight, the clock chimed again. The common room had thinned. A pair of third-years on the sofa behind us argued in whispers about a Transfiguration essay. The portrait above the bookcase had turned its head away and pretended to sleep. The game stretched. Neither of us hurried. When I reached to push a pawn and hesitated, Ginny tapped the table twice with her fingernail. Not impatient. Just present.
"Your move," she prompted.
I pushed the pawn. She took on en passant, with no second thought. The pawns scuffled; one dragged the other by the ankle, then both toppled on their sides with a grunt. The white king cleared his throat pointedly. I instructed him to hold his crown on.
"You're good," I told her.
"So are you," she returned. "You keep the centre without trying to do everything at once. That's rare in our lot."
"Meaning Gryffindor?"
"Meaning people our age," she clarified, mouth twitching.
I saw a line. It was not neat, but it was there. I offered a queen trade to peel away her best defender, then brought a rook to the seventh rank. My rook stamped its foot and shouted at her king. She looked at the board for a long moment, then shook her head once.
"That's ugly," she observed, but there was a smile in her voice. She slid a pawn one square with two fingers. The move was small. It closed the only clean check I had and gave her queen a straight path to my back line if I blundered. I did not. I brought my knight to f7 with a hop. Her rook knocked it off with a hard swing. The knight told me I should have seen that coming.
"Fair," I said, laughing under my breath.
We came to an ending without rooks. Each of us had a queen, a knight, and a trail of angry pawns. Ginny drank from a water bottle she had set by her jumper and offered it wordlessly. I shook my head. The clock chimed nine. The fire settled lower. Now, the warmth barely reached the hearth's edge. A draught drifted through the window gaps and cooled the back of my neck. Someone upstairs dropped a shoe. The sound carried down the stairwell and then stopped.
"Do you want to call it a draw?" she asked after a long sequence of checks and blocks. There was no frustration in her tone. Only a level read of the position. Neither of us could force it without making a mistake, or handing one over.
"Rematch," I countered. "Black this time."
Her eyebrows lifted. "Greedy."
"Curious," I shot back.
We reset the board. The pieces took their places with fewer comments. The black queen adjusted her crown and faced forward. Ginny opened with a simple pawn push. I mirrored it and set a quiet trap. Three moves later she sprang it without stepping on it and grinned at me in a way that warmed my face. My plan was obvious; she had seen it at once.
"You were watching the person," I noted.
"I was," she confirmed.
This one moved faster. She castled long. I shoved pawns at her king. Her knights bounced between outposts and knocked two of my pawns clean off. We both lost a bishop to minor oversights, and both pretended we had meant it. A second-year passed behind us and looked down at the board with apparent approval. Ginny gave him a brief nod. He went pink and fled.
By ten, the room was almost empty. Only the fire, the clock, and the two of us. I edged into a better ending and then walked straight into a fork. Her knight landed with a thud and pointed at my queen and my loose pawn. I saved the queen. The pawn fell down without a sound. She advanced her outside passer in a steady march. I could stop it with my king, but that would cost me the rest. I looked up and met her eyes. She was not chasing a quick win. She kept an eye on my face and the board at the same time.
"Draw?" I offered.
"Draw," she agreed.
We shook once over the board. Her hand was warm, and her grip precise. We left the pieces where they were for the next lot to sort, then sat back and watched the last bits of coal settle in the grate. My shoulders had dropped a noticeable inch. I could feel the difference.
Ginny checked the time on the clock by the window. "It's getting late. Do you want to do this again tomorrow? Talk, I mean. Or we can meet in a different place."
"Sure," I said. "That would be good. Somewhere else is fine."
I stood, and my legs felt warm from the fire. "Goodnight," I added.
"Goodnight, Harry," she answered, and I replayed the sound of her saying my name as I crossed the room.
I left the common room and climbed. The stair treads were smooth under my shoes. The banister was cool. A soft squeal came from the dormitory door hinges as I pushed. Inside, the lamps were low. Others drew the curtains around their beds. I could hear one slow snore and the faint rasp of someone turning a page under a blanket.
The bedside clock showed eleven.
Light filled the doorway without a sound. A silver wolf formed there, bright and hard. My knuckles went white on the sheet. Remus's voice came from the Patronus, flat and urgent: "Harry. My quarters. Now."