Voices drifted through the door, muted but unmistakable. The kind of whisper that made my heart beat louder, just to drown it out.
A clipped woman's voice came first; practical, brisk, and edged with concern. I didn't recognise it.
Then came Remus's reply, quieter and steadier. That measured calm he always used when things were bad was somehow both reassuring and faintly infuriating. He wasn't whispering, not exactly, just speaking in that careful way of his—low and deliberate, like he was trying not to make things worse.
I strained to catch more, hoping for actual words, but they slipped through the cracks. Only hushed exchanges, thoughtful and serious.
Undeniably about me.
A sick dread unfurled in my chest. It had to be about me. What else would they be discussing at this hour, in this room, after everything?
Shame rose again, hot beneath my skin. I turned my head towards the ceiling and squeezed my eyes shut, jaw tight.
I had done this.
Brought it on myself.
But it wouldn't only be me who paid for it.
That was what twisted the knife.
It wasn't just my own foolishness. It was about the damage spilling into someone else's life. His life. Remus's.
Remus had vouched for me. I knew that without being told. He'd gone to McGonagall, maybe even Dumbledore, and promised them I was ready. That I wouldn't be a problem. That I'd finish the year quietly, without stirring rumours.
He'd put his name beside mine.
And I'd proved him wrong. Spectacularly.
I hadn't lasted a week.
One week in the bloody castle, and I'd already made a spectacle of myself, passing out and poisoned in front of half the student body. It wouldn't take much for the whispers to start: the new boy causing trouble already, Lupin's ward in over his head. And with them would come the questioning glances at Remus.
The scrutiny. The doubt.
What had he been thinking, bringing me here?
And now, somewhere beyond that door, I imagined them quietly deciding what to do next. The woman suggesting it might be best to remove me. Remus nodding, quiet and tired, his face unreadable. The decision already made before I could stand up straight.
What if he thought this was it? That I'd thrown away my chance and dragged him down with me? Would he want to leave? Or feel he had to?
The thought sent a chill through me, worse than the poison's after-effects.
It wasn't the first time we'd disappeared on short notice, sometimes before people had even remembered we'd been there. We'd done it before, leaving towns with names we never really learned, no explanations, no goodbyes, just trunks packed in silence and a front door that never shut quite right behind us.
Was that what this would be? Another exit in the night. Another name crossed off the list of places we'd never return to. Would he even ask me? Or would he come in, quiet as always, and say something gentle but final: "Get dressed, Harry. We need to go." Just that. Nothing more.
And it would be over.
The new life I'd only just started, the fragile, strange hope of it, would vanish. Hogsmeade weekends. The Gryffindor Tower. Corridors I used to hate and now found oddly comforting. That early autumn smell in the courtyards after rain.
Ginny.
My stomach clenched at the thought of her: her voice, her arm steadying me, her face full of that fierce, furious care. I'd dragged her into it too.
I didn't know what she thought of me now. Probably that I was pathetic. Reckless. An idiot for coming to Hogwarts.
But she'd been there. She hadn't left. That had to mean something.
Or maybe not. Maybe it was instinct. Pity.
Either way, it wouldn't matter once I was gone.
Shame swelled again, catching in my throat.
Still, the door stayed closed.
No summons. No packed bag at the end of the bed.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the seconds stretching until they felt unbearable.
Eventually, I forced myself upright, hissing through my teeth as my muscles protested. My legs hung over the edge of the bed, the floor cold and unfamiliar under my bare feet.
I moved slowly, every step stiff and dragging.
Passing the tall cabinet near the door, I caught sight of my reflection in the glass and stopped short.
I looked… awful.
Pale and drawn, with shadows under my eyes that hadn't been there yesterday. My hair looked mutinous, flat on one side and wild on the other. My face was a patchwork of blotches and faint scratches—one on my cheek I didn't remember getting, and a red rash still fading on my neck. My lips were cracked, my eyes hollow, as if I'd been scraped thin from the inside out.
No trace of a saviour in that face: only the boy no one was supposed to remember.
The clock on the wall told me it was nearly noon.
I stepped cautiously into the main room, the cold stone biting at my bare feet. The air felt cooler, faintly tinged with that sharp medicinal scent of potions and disinfecting charms.
A woman stood at the far end of the table, arms elbow-deep in a small forest of potion bottles. Her movements were brisk and efficient. She had to be Madam Pomfrey. We'd never met before, but Remus had told me she'd worked with the Order once—quietly, behind hospital wards and closed doors. She didn't look up when I entered, but her hands paused for a moment, the faintest shift in her posture. Enough to show she'd noticed me, even if she didn't plan to make a fuss.
Her sleeves were rolled to her forearms, ink stains smudged across one wrist, and the shimmer of a fading healing charm on the other. She'd clearly been working for hours, probably without so much as a proper cuppa or a sit-down since yesterday.
And then there was Remus.
He stood by the far window, back turned, motionless. His shoulders were slightly hunched, not in pain exactly, but in that weary way he had when something pressed too heavily on his mind.
His hands were clasped behind him, head bowed as he stared through the window at the overcast sky. Pale grey light spilled across the floor, catching the silver streaks in his hair. They seemed starker today.
Still, he didn't turn. I shifted my weight, cleared my throat, and even let the bloody door click shut behind me, but nothing.
But I knew he'd heard me. I could feel it somehow. He always could.
My mouth was dry, and my lips were cracked and stinging. A jug of water sat on the table, and I went for it like it was the first sensible thing I'd done in days. The glass felt heavier than it should have. My fingers trembled slightly as I poured, and I had to slow down to stop it from spilling. The first swallow burned, but I didn't care. I drank the rest of it quickly, just to get rid of the scratch in my throat.
The silence stretched between us, long and taut. I almost wished he'd shout. I could have handled shouting; it would have meant he still had some fire left to waste on me. Anger I could face. Expected, even. Anything was better than this quiet, deliberate silence that felt final.
He wasn't ignoring me; he was thinking, weighing whether I'd endangered the one secret we couldn't afford to lose: the truth about who I was.
And somehow that was worse.
I stood there with the empty glass in my hand, my stomach twisting itself in knots.
Why wasn't he saying anything? Why wouldn't he even look at me?
Maybe this was it. Maybe I'd finally proven I couldn't be trusted.
I'd told him I was ready. That I could handle being back here. And he'd believed me. He'd stood up for me. Promised them I'd keep my head down and focus. And now I'd woken up in his quarters, poisoned by my own stupidity.
If he asked me to leave, I'd go. I wouldn't fight him.
Ginny's face flashed unbidden in my mind, her hand on my arm, the concern in her eyes. I pushed it away quickly. That warmth didn't belong to me. It belonged to the version of me who hadn't yet ruined everything.
Madam Pomfrey finally turned, giving me a look that managed to catalogue every failing at once. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"How are you feeling?"
Her gaze lingered a little too long, as if she saw beyond the surface.
"I've been better," I muttered.
She nodded briskly. "That's to be expected. You're lucky the poison was caught early. Another hour and the damage might've been irreversible."
My stomach turned.
"And what were you thinking, Potter, taking drinks you didn't recognise?"
My stomach dropped. I couldn't tell if she sounded more angry or disappointed.
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. No excuse would sound anything but pathetic.
She shook her head, muttering, "Foolish. Utterly reckless. It's a miracle you're not in St Mungo's."
The words stung because she was right.
Remus still hadn't moved.
I stared at the back of his head, willing him to turn, to look at me, to say anything.
I couldn't bear the silence.
"Remus," I said. My voice cracked halfway through, and I swallowed hard to steady it. "I'm sorry. I don't know how it happened; I wasn't thinking. I just…"
The words felt brittle in my mouth. I hated how weak they sounded.
"I feel like such an idiot," I forced out, more bitterly than I meant. "I was daft. I should have known. I did know, in a way. But I didn't stop."
Still he did not answer. He did not even shift his weight. Just that steady line of his back against the window, grey light across his shoulders.
The air felt thick and stifling until I could hardly stand it.
"Can you please say something?" I stepped forward, fists curling at my sides. "Anything at all."
At last, he turned.
His face was not furious.
It was worse.
He looked exhausted. Not just from the night, but from me. That was how it felt, anyway: not furious, not even disappointed, only utterly weary. Something in my chest lurched at the sight.
"What would you like me to say?" His voice was low, but it cut cleanly across the room. "That it's fine? That you made a mistake and we will simply carry on? That no one saw too much?"
I bristled. "I didn't say it was fine…"
"No, you did not," he said quietly, too calm. "But you did say you do not know how it happened. That it just, what, slipped your mind that you were meant to be careful?"
"I wasn't trying to be reckless!"
"No?" His eyebrow lifted, the only sharp movement in his whole body. "Then what were you trying to be? Polite? Brave? Invisible?"
The words stung. "I wasn't trying anything," I shot back, heat rising in my face. "It was one measly drink!"
"Harry, one drink nearly landed you in St Mungo's. Do you have any idea what questions they'd have asked if you'd been taken there? What names would've surfaced?"
That stopped me. My throat worked, but nothing came out.
Remus moved from the window at last, folding his arms. "You think this is only about feeling foolish?" His voice dropped, quieter now but edged with something harder. "You think your mistake ends with a headache and a bit of embarrassment?"
"I know I messed up," I said, fists tightening. "I know I did."
"But you do not know why it matters," he said, stepping closer. "You do not know what it risked."
His voice caught on the last word, and that almost undid me more than anger.
"I said I was sorry."
Remus's voice rose before I realised it was coming.
"This is not about an apology, Harry!"
The shout cracked the air. Even Madam Pomfrey looked up from her vials, startled. Remus almost never raised his voice.
"I stood in front of people who doubted me," he went on, pacing now, as if the floor could not hold his frustration. "People in the Order who still believe this plan is madness. I told them it was safe, that you were ready. That bringing you here would not endanger you. That it would not bring trouble through the doors."
He stopped, breath coming hard.
"I said you were capable. And what did you do? You let someone hand you poison, and you swallowed it without thinking."
"You think I meant to?" I snapped, guilt boiling into anger. "You think I wanted to end up like that?"
"I think you did not care enough not to," he said quietly. "And that is the problem."
The words hit harder than I expected. Something sour rose in my throat.
"You're ashamed of me," I said, before I could stop myself.
He looked at me sharply. "Do not twist this into something trivial."
"I'm not twisting anything. I saw your face last night, Remus. You couldn't even look at me last night. You still barely can."
He closed his eyes briefly and exhaled. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher. "I'm not ashamed of you, Harry. I'm terrified for you."
The words hit harder than the poison.
"I have spent years trying to protect you from the world—what's left of it for you—and I am only just realising I should have been protecting you from yourself."
That hurt more than anything he could have shouted.
We stood there, the space between us heavy with everything we could not undo. Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat softly and, with a brisk sweep of her wand, gathered her potions and slipped from the room, leaving us alone. Her footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving the silence sharper than before. I heard her speak to someone, low and quick.
The fury drained out of me, leaving something heavier behind.
"I didn't want this to happen," I said at last, my voice rough. "I just didn't think it would go so far."
"No one ever does," Remus replied. "The difference is, most people do not have the world watching, waiting for them to slip."
He stepped closer, gentler now.
"You don't get to be reckless, Harry," he said. "Not after everything you've survived. People here are only just starting to trust you, even without knowing why they should. If they see you losing control already, they'll stop believing you deserve that chance."
I swallowed hard and stared at the floor.
"I know it is beastly unfair," he added softly. "I know you never asked for that weight. But you have it, and you cannot afford to forget it."
Silence settled again.
"You have to understand how close you came," Remus said at last. "This simply cannot happen again. It won't just be lectures next time. "
"It won't happen again," I said, throat tight. "I swear."
He did not smile, but a fraction of the tension in his shoulders eased. He gave a small nod.
"Right then," he said.
With that, he turned back to the window, his reflection in the pane holding the faintest flicker of concern that had not been there before.
A sharp knock sounded at the door.
I jumped, heart leaping stupidly in my chest. For a moment I thought it must be Madam Pomfrey returning. But Remus moved to answer it, and when he opened the door, he hesitated for a second—long enough that I saw the calculation in his eyes before he stepped aside.
I saw the one person I least expected and the last I felt ready to face. Especially when she was the only one who'd looked at me and seen more than a name that didn't quite belong. Not since the Room of Requirement. Not since I'd collapsed like a fool in front of her.
Ginny.
My stomach dropped, my shoulders tensing automatically, bracing for impact. After the humiliating shambles I'd made of myself in the Room of Requirement, seeing her again brought a flush of heat up my neck.
I shifted, wishing the chair would swallow me whole.
She stepped in, steady and composed, if a little windswept. The breeze had tugged at her hair, leaving it slightly wild, and for some reason that made her seem even more present. The scent of outside clung to her: early autumn air, damp leaves, and something faintly like broom polish.
Remus inclined his head in acknowledgement.
"I just came to see how he's doing," she said simply, her gaze fixed on me.
Madam Pomfrey must have told her I was awake; I doubted anyone else would have risked it.
Her tone wasn't accusing or smug or even pitying, which somehow made it worse. It was level, soft, and far too kind for the person I'd been yesterday.
I knew it was my turn to say something—to acknowledge her, to thank her, to be normal—but all I managed was a tight-lipped nod. Words refused to form. The tension climbed from my chest into my throat, choking off anything I might have said.
Remus filled the silence. "Thank you again for what you did yesterday. You helped when no one else knew what to do."
Ginny shook her head lightly. "It wasn't much."
"Still." Remus gestured toward the water jug opposite me. "Would you like something to drink?"
She glanced at me, then shook her head. "No, thank you. I can't stay long."
"At least sit for a moment."
He caught my eye briefly, a silent reassurance or warning; I couldn't tell. But he excused himself, slipping into his room with the same quiet efficiency he always carried, leaving me alone with her.
Which, of course, only made it worse.
The door closed softly behind him, but the sound felt thunderous. I stared at the space he'd left, unsure whether to stand, apologise, or vanish altogether. The last thing I needed was to say something wrong—to slip, even by accident. One careless word, and she might start asking questions I couldn't answer.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. The air between us felt too still, too fragile to touch.
Ginny sat, leaning forward slightly, elbows on her knees, eyes fixed steadily on me.
"I was worried about you," she said quietly.
Her words weren't dramatic or heavy. They were plain and steady, and somehow that made them hit harder.
I nodded stiffly. "I'm fine now. Still a bit light-headed, maybe, but fine," I said, though it came out shakier than I meant to. My voice still didn't sound quite my own. The heat in my body hadn't gone, and I couldn't tell if it was from the antidote or from being this close to her.
She didn't let the silence stretch. "You should be more careful who you trust around here."
There was something intimate in her tone—soft but sure—that made me look up. Not suspicion. Not judgement. Just quiet certainty.
"It wasn't anyone's fault," I said quickly, before she could start guessing who it might've been. "I should have known better."
Ginny's eyes didn't move from mine. "You were poisoned," she said softly. It wasn't a question. "I could smell it on your breath yesterday. Bitter. Wrong. Not like Firewhisky or anything I've smelled before."
My throat tightened. "It wasn't," I began, forcing a smile that felt thin. "Just a bad mix. Must've reacted with something in the cup. Pomfrey said it wasn't serious. She's just keeping me under watch for a bit."
She frowned. "You don't look like someone who had a mix-up."
"I'm fine," I said quickly, though the words came out rougher than I intended. "Remus made sure of it."
Ginny didn't argue, but her gaze lingered—steady, assessing. The kind that made you wonder how much she actually believed. After a moment, she sighed softly, as though letting it go, at least for now.
She hesitated, lips parting as if to say something more, then closed them again.
"You're not like the others here," she said finally. Her voice was quiet and thoughtful. "It's… different. You're different."
I blinked. "What's that meant to mean?"
A faint smile touched her lips. "You don't talk like the others, do you?"
I bristled slightly, trying not to sound defensive. "I'm just not social, I suppose."
Her smile grew, but it wasn't mocking. "It's not a bad thing," she said, shrugging. "It's actually quite refreshing. Makes a nice change."
"I wish I were more like everyone else," I said quietly, before I could stop myself.
She frowned. "Why would you want that? There's no point pretending to be someone you're not."
I didn't answer. Mostly because I didn't know. Maybe I just wanted to fit somewhere. Maybe I was tired of standing out for the wrong reasons, tired of being the one name the world had already forgotten.
She leaned back, studying me more seriously. "You could have been in real trouble yesterday," she said. "You were lucky."
I gave a weak, humourless laugh. "Lucky you were there when things went wrong."
That earned me a proper smirk. "You're impossible."
"I'm serious," I said, trying for a bit of a flirt; awkward maybe, but at least I was trying. "How can I ever repay your kindness?"
She pretended to think. "There is one thing."
I sat up straighter. "Go on."
But she didn't answer straightaway.
Her eyes found mine again, and this time I didn't look away. I couldn't. I leaned forward slightly, just a fraction, my heart thudding so loudly I was sure she could hear it.
The silence stretched between us.
Maybe it was the antidote still clouding my head, or maybe I'd just grown tired of holding everything back, but something reckless surged up before I could think, the kind of impulse I always regretted after. The words slipped out before I could stop them, too quick to take back, half a question, half a confession.
"Maybe we could spend some time together. Properly, I mean."
The air between us shifted. Blood rushed to my ears, but Ginny didn't look shocked. She didn't even blink.
She smiled. Not broadly, not teasingly, but with quiet understanding. Gently. Like she'd been waiting.
"I wondered when you'd ask," she said.
Her smile lingered even as she stood to leave, and something inside me shifted, light and terrifying all at once.
For the first time since I'd arrived, the future didn't feel like something to survive. It felt like something that might actually begin.
Remus closed the door behind him without a word after Ginny had left, folding his arms loosely across his chest. The silence that followed was tight with quiet disapproval.
"I take it that was more than a friendly visit," he said at last. His voice wasn't raised, but there was a clipped edge to it, the kind that came when he was measuring every word.
I didn't see the point in dodging it. "I asked her to spend more time with me."
Remus blinked once, slowly. "I see."
A short silence followed.
"That's all you've got to say?" I asked, bracing myself, half-hoping—stupidly—that he'd surprise me, that he'd say I deserved something good after everything.
But of course, he didn't.
"Harry," he said, and the way he said my name told me I wouldn't like what came next. "Do you really think this is a good idea—now of all times?"
I felt it immediately, that sharp flare of defensiveness prickling along my spine. "Why wouldn't it be?"
Remus's brow furrowed slightly, though the rest of his face stayed calm. "Because you nearly died yesterday, and today you're asking out the girl who dragged you back. Doesn't that seem a bit impulsive? You're still recovering, and half the school saw you collapse. The last thing we need is more eyes on you."
I scoffed, irritated by his measured tone. "I'm not five, Remus. I don't need a minder to ask someone to spend time with me."
His gaze narrowed. "It's not about age, Harry. It's about risk. And you seem determined to ignore it."
I folded my arms. "So what, I'm not allowed to make decisions without clearing them with you first?"
"That's not what I'm saying."
"It sounds exactly like that."
Remus's jaw tightened. "I'm saying you might think about the consequences before you go charging ahead."
"There's nothing to think about," I shot back, though deep down I knew there was.
Remus tilted his head slightly. "No? Not the attention it'll bring? Not how fragile your position is after yesterday? You don't think people are already waiting for an excuse to say you don't belong here?"
"I don't care what they whisper—they don't even know me. Not really."
"No," he said, voice tightening, "but you might think twice before giving them something to whisper about."
I felt it again, that push and pull inside me. The need to prove I wasn't reckless fighting with the part that knew, quietly, maybe I was.
I looked away, jaw tight. "You're overreacting."
"I'm not," he said sharply. "I'm trying to stop you from drawing the wrong kind of attention."
"Wrong kind of attention?" I bristled. "Since when is asking to spend more time the wrong kind?"
"When you've only been here a week, surrounded by people who don't know you and are already watching for something to gossip about!" His voice cracked slightly, the edge of frustration slipping through.
He drew a breath, forcing calm. "That wasn't part of what we agreed on when you came here. You promised to keep your head down—stay out of trouble until things settled."
My fists clenched. "Oh, I see. So I'm not allowed a personal life now?"
"You're not here to start making a name for yourself," he said, voice low but steady. "You're here to stay safe and show that you can handle being here. You're not here to draw eyes, Harry. Not in corridors, not at meals, not anywhere."
For a moment, the anger in his eyes faltered, with something softer, almost frightened, showing through before he looked away.
The words hit hard. I didn't flinch, but something burned deep in my chest—hurt, confusion, and pride twisting together. I knew I was only giving him more reasons to doubt me. I knew I should let it go. Say he was right. Thank him. But I couldn't. Because another voice, louder than his, refused to back down. It didn't care about rules or consequences. It just knew I wanted to see her again. Even if wanting anything normal was dangerous. Even if it meant lying again.
Remus studied me for a long moment. "Perhaps keeping a low profile for a while would be wiser."
"I'm not hiding," I said sharply. "I'm trying to find my own way."
"You're still finding your footing here, Harry," he said, suddenly stern. "The fewer ripples you make, the safer you stay. Every friendship, every glance—it draws attention we can't afford. This isn't the time to start acting as though you belong here completely."
"I'm not acting on anything," I said through my teeth. "I'm trying to live my life."
"And I'm trying to make sure you have one!" His voice rose, and for a heartbeat I saw it—fear, raw and unguarded.
For a moment, I thought he might shout again. But instead, he forced himself still. He took a breath and reined it in. "We'll talk later."
"No," I said. "We'll talk now. Because I'm not going to be treated like a child every time I disagree with you."
Remus turned slowly, eyes hard. "Then stop acting like one."
The words hit clean and sharp, echoing like a closing door.
I didn't move. The heat in my face wasn't just anger anymore—it was shame. The kind that makes your chest ache and your throat close.
Remus's voice came quieter now, almost tired. "You want to make your own choices? Fine. But remember this—your actions affect more than you. They affect me and every ounce of trust I fought to build to get you here. If you can't manage that, then maybe we'll have to reconsider whether this can keep working."
I saw a flicker of something calculating in his eyes, the kind of look that meant he already had a plan to make sure it didn't happen again.
Before I could respond, he shut the door behind him with a soft click that felt louder than any shout, a reminder that even safety here came with terms set by someone else.
I stood there in the silence, fury burning hot and hollow. For a moment, I told myself he was wrong.
But the longer I stood there, the more it hit me—if he was right, I might not have a place here at all.
I'd told him I wanted to live my life. But maybe I didn't know what that meant anymore.