10:42 a.m.
The digits on the bedside clock glowed bright and precise. I sat up at once, mouth dry and heart thudding; I had missed Transfiguration.
Sunlight fell in a narrow strip across the floorboards, and dust rose when I pushed the covers back. The other beds were empty, curtains open, trunks shut. A faint rise of voices and footsteps carried up from the common room. The air had a clean, cold smell of stone and old ash.
I grabbed my watch from the bedside table, knocked a couple of textbooks onto the rug with a flat thud and tugged my robes on. My shirt buttons were uneven, so I fumbled them into place with fingers that would not move quickly enough. I shoved my tie into my pocket, jammed my feet into my shoes and took the spiral stairs two at a time. At the turn, my shoulder scraped the wall and left a smear of chalk on my robe sleeve.
There was no way to slip in unnoticed. I pushed the heavy oak door open. Chalk scratched the blackboard, and Professor McGonagall turned;
"Mr Potter," she addressed me, voice cool. "You're late. Take a seat. Pick up Miss Granger's notes after class."
She gave a brief nod; the matter was settled. The staff had been told I was a transfer from abroad and to leave the reasons at that. Students would get the same story, nothing more.
"Yes, Professor," I answered, my tone rough as heat climbed into my face and the back of my neck. I crossed to the nearest empty seat, kept my steps steady and sat; the wood felt cold through my robes. Fabric rustled. A chair leg squeaked somewhere behind me. I fixed my eyes on the desk and slowed my breathing until it was under control. One portrait on the wall looked my way, then turned aside without a word. They all knew not to mention me. The silence had become its own kind of protection. Even Snape had maintained his distance, polite but quiet. Whatever he remembered, he didn't make a show of it, and I was grateful for that.
On the blackboard was a series of instructions for reverse animation of small objects. Across the top she had written "Counter-sequence for Inanimate Stabilisation". The room smelt of chalk and warm wool with a faint trace of desk polish. A draught through the window cooled the sweat at my hairline while wands made short arcs, quills tapped and a clock ticked near the door.
Professor McGonagall pointed with the end of her wand. "Watch the reversal at step four. Put the emphasis on the second syllable and shape each vowel. Do not overdo the flick."
I opened my notebook, set my ink and quill, and copied the headings in straight lines. I underlined the counter-sequence twice and left a space for steps one to six. My hand shook a little at first. It settled once the words filled the page.
On the far side of the room, Justin Finch-Fletchley clipped the pitch of the final syllable. His textbook twitched, sprouted two stubby legs and shuffled six inches. He made a startled sound and snatched his wand back. Professor McGonagall did not raise her voice. She flicked her wand once. The legs withdrew, and the book lay still.
"Thank you, Mr Finch-Fletchley," she remarked. "We can all see why stage three matters."
A few students let out quick, quiet laughs. Chairs creaked as they adjusted their postures. I kept my head down and wrote the correction beside step three: short vowel, no rise.
"Miss Patil," Professor McGonagall instructed, "step four, please."
Parvati spoke the words with care and held her wand hand level. A quill that had been walking in place on the table lost movement and dropped back onto its feather. The class watched in complete silence. McGonagall gave a small nod.
"Better. Again from the start."
I used the pause to catch up and noted the steps: step one, isolate the original activation; step two, separate the anchor from motion; step three, shorten the vowel and lower the tone; step four, reverse the flick; step five, hold for two counts; step six, clear release.
Hermione's neat script slid into my head. She would already have the margin notes, the cautions and the diagrams. I added a line to remind myself: borrow Hermione's diagrams after lunch.
Professor McGonagall walked down the centre aisle. Her heels made clean, measured sounds on the stone. She paused behind my desk. I kept writing. Ink flowed smoothly and black. She did not speak. After a moment, the faint scent of her tartan wool moved on.
"Pairs," she announced. "Stabilise one object each. Five minutes."
Benches scraped. I slid my wand from my sleeve and tested the grip. My fingers had warmed. The weight felt right again. I chose my inkwell and placed it at the edge of my desk. The glass caught the light from the window. I pictured the steps in order and mouthed the consonants once without sound. My stomach gave a small twist of nerves and then settled.
Across from me, a Hufflepuff I did not know well raised his chin. "Ready?" he asked.
"All set," I answered.
We worked through the sequence with care, matching the counts. My inkwell lifted, tipped and steadied, returning to still glass without a tremble. Relief loosened my shoulders. I noted the exact shape of the wrist movement that had been effective and wrote it down before it could slip.
The bell went. Quills clicked shut. Books thumped into bags. Professor McGonagall raised her voice a fraction over the scrape of benches.
"Homework is the written sequence with annotations. Practical check on Monday. Dismissed."
I waited until the first rush eased, then capped my ink, wiped the rim of the bottle, and packed my things. My pulse had settled. The heat on my face had gone. I stood, kept my eyes forward, and joined the stream to the door with a steady pace, ready to find Hermione and get the rest of the notes.
I heard my name before I saw her. "Harry!" Hermione jogged up and stopped at my side, folding her arms and lifting an eyebrow.
"You missed quite a lot," she told me, not unkindly. "We covered the basics of spell reversal and how animated objects keep residual energy. You should practise tonight, or you will fall behind. McGonagall was not pleased."
"I noticed," I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. "Didn't mean to sleep through it. I overslept."
Her gaze softened. She did not pick at it. "You'll catch up. I can help if you want."
"Thanks," I added, and meant it.
We turned the corner. The flagstones were cool through my soles even with shoes on. The torches gave off a faint hiss and spat now and then. A draught bulged the bottom edge of a tapestry and slid across my shins. A portrait of a witch with a lace collar clicked her tongue when we went by and muttered something under her breath about manners. Students travelled in small groups. The conversation rose and fell in little clusters rather than a single loud shout. The air smelt of warm stone, polish, and old smoke.
"There's a new thing on the Gryffindor noticeboard," Hermione mentioned. "They've announced a Promenade Dance."
"A what?" I asked.
"A formal ball in February. Valentine's theme," she explained, eyes bright. "Dress robes, partners, a printed programme, the lot."
"It's September."
"Yes, but these things need planning," she chided, giving me a look. "People have already started talking about it. Some students invite others from different schools."
"Seems a bit much. That's five months away."
"Harry, it's tradition," she insisted.
"Whose tradition?"
"For everyone here," she went on without missing a step. "There's music, dancing, and dress robes. You make a night of it. People treat it as practice for formal occasions later on."
I let out a breath. "What, Hogwarts policy now? Learn to hex, apparate, waltz, then get married?"
She rolled her eyes. "Don't be so cynical. It's a chance to do something normal. Fun."
"Normal" did not sit well in my mouth. Outside these walls, people were continuing to make lists of who had not come home. Inside, somebody had written neat lines in black ink on a cream notice and pinned it to a board with brass tacks. A sign-up sheet hung under it with a fresh quill tied on a string.
"Still," I said, "suppose you're going, then?"
"Might. If someone asks."
Her tone was flat in a practised way, which told me there were ideas in her head about timings, homework around it, and how to fit study in the week before. I pictured myself on the edge of that list.
I almost wondered if anyone had asked her in advance, but I kept quiet. We passed the staircase to the third floor; it shifted one step to the left with a low scrape, then stopped. Hermione did not even glance at it. She had already adjusted her footwork.
The idea of the dance tightened my stomach. I could hear Remus in my head: fuss and racket, a crowd with nowhere to walk away to. He would close his door and read. A quiet Saturday was always his preference over loud melodies. He was right about the crowds. He was not wrong about the noise. I felt a pull I could not explain. It had nothing to do with steps or music. It was about potential attendees and invitations.
"Anyway," Hermione said, nudging my elbow, "you should give it some thought. Even if you're not planning to attend, somebody may ask you."
That had not occurred to me. I glanced at her.
Her smile implied she'd already considered the options. "You'd be surprised."
"Highly unlikely," I murmured.
She gave a small, doubtful sound.
She wasn't finished. "Have you thought about whom you might approach?" She ventured, trying to seem casual and failing. The look in her eyes said she had a list prepared in order.
"Not really," I answered, rolling a shoulder.
"You've got time and options," she pressed. "People are already asking around. Parvati reckons Neville is going to ask Luna, and apparently Terry Boot is attempting to get back in with Lisa Turpin."
The names meant little to me. "Right."
"What about Ginny?" Hermione prodded.
Hearing Ginny's name tightened my stomach. I kept my voice level. "What about her?" I returned.
"Come on, Harry. You look at her every time we're in the same room. Avoid pretending you do not."
"Yesterday, you told me she was complicated and I should steer clear of her," I reminded her. "Besides, I wasn't planning to."
Her eyebrows went up. "Well," she offered, a bit too bright, "just don't leave it too long. You'll only get beaten to it."
I did not like the feel of that. "What about you? Anyone you're thinking of going with?" I asked, diverting quickly.
Hermione blushed. She lifted a hand into her hair and wound a strand around her finger. She leaned closer and whispered. "Parvati told Lavender that she overheard Seamus telling Dean that Ron Weasley is considering asking me."
"Oh," I managed, trying to follow the chain. "Right. Wow."
She let out a small squeak into her sleeve and shook her head, then looked me straight in the eye. "Never tell anyone. I mean it. If you breathe a word, I'll hex you. I don't want to jinx it."
"I won't," I said, palms up. "Promise."
She smiled properly then. For a few seconds, I forgot that I didn't care about dances. Seeing her pleased put an easier shape on the whole thing. The corridor grew busier. Robes brushed my arm. Someone's satchel bumped against my hip. A strong smell of polish lifted from the floor where the stone was smoother. A draught ran along the wall near the base of an arch and cooled my ankles.
I should have been thinking about the next class. My timetable rustled in my pocket when I put my hand on it. Instead, my thoughts left the talk about dress robes and cuts and returned to what had been sitting in my head since yesterday.
Ginny Weasley.
I had not seen her since breakfast. That was probably for the best. When she was near, I struggled to keep my train of thought in a line long enough to finish a sentence. It was not dramatic. I lost focus. My hand had the hollow tremor it gets after holding a wand out for a while and needing to rest. My breathing changed too. I noticed it because I had trained myself to notice it. I had used my breath to steady my hands in worse places than a corridor.
Hermione switched to colours. Emerald green or black. Trim or no trim. Hair up or down. I gave answers that could pass, but none of them stuck. My eyes kept checking the end of the hall even when I told them not to.
Hermione checked her timetable against mine. "Muggle Studies for me," she added, sliding a book into her bag and fastening the clasp. "You've got Divination next."
"We'll meet at lunch?" I checked.
"Of course," she replied. "And try not to be late again."
She gave me a firm little smile and joined the flow of people, bag bouncing lightly against her hip. The sound of her shoes on stone faded into the general noise.
I turned the other way and then swore under my breath. I had left my Divination book upstairs.
The Gryffindor common room was quiet when I climbed through the portrait hole. The fire was steady in the grate, and the heat reached halfway across the space. Two second-year students sat on the rug with a chessboard between them. One of the white knights tapped its base against the square and scowled at a bishop. Someone at the far table flipped through notes and chewed the back of a quill. Nobody looked up.
I went up the boys' staircase, crossed the dormitory, grabbed my Divination text from the bed, and headed down again with the book under my arm. The leather was dry at the edges and left a faint smell of dust and ink on my sleeve.
That was when I saw her.
Ginny stood by the hearth with one foot on the side of a chair. She had pushed her robe cuff past her arm and was tightening the strap on an elbow guard. She wore a full Gryffindor Quidditch kit. The crimson cloth was clean but softened by use, and the seams at the shoulders had that slight pull you get from flying often. Above her left breast, her captain's badge flashed when she moved. A clasp held back her hair. A few strands had worked loose and lay against her cheek. She tightly laced her boots, which were dark with gloss. I could smell broom polish and a trace of grass when the air shifted.
She looked up before I could pretend I had not seen her. The left corner of her mouth lifted. I recognised it from the first time we spoke. At this moment, there was nothing uncertain about it. Her eyes were clear and steady, and she set her shoulders as if she were ready to get on with the next thing.
"All right?" She murmured softly, amusement in her voice. "We meet again."
I stopped mid-step and blinked twice. "Hi," I managed. The word came out roughly. My mouth was dry, and I had to swallow before I trusted my tone after that.
She stepped closer at an even pace. From this distance, I could see her eyes clearly. The irises were brown with a lighter ring near the pupil, and the firelight from the hearth showed a faint gold tint at the edge. A small mark sat close to her left eyebrow, and there were three pale freckles across the bridge of her nose. A short strand of her hair had worked free over her cheek. She tucked it away with two fingers and then let her hand fall to her side.
My chest tightened, and my heartbeat thudded in my ears. I adjusted my grip on the book I was holding. The cover edge was hard against my palm and created a shallow line in the skin.
"I didn't get the chance to ask yesterday," she went on, tone steady. "Are you new? Everything was chaos, wasn't it?"
I nodded too quickly. I looked down at my shoes to compose myself. The left lace had come undone, and dust from the hearthrug had stuck to the end. I pressed my heel on the string to keep it in place and raised my eyes again.
She met my gaze and did not look away. Warmth climbed up my neck to my face. I could feel the skin heat under it. My fingers tightened on the book, and the paper sleeve shifted with a dry rustle.
"Someone told me you lived abroad?" She asked, head tilting a little, a small dimple showing on her left cheek. "Bit of a mystery, aren't you? Quiet. You keep to yourself." Her mouth curved, and her eyes held mine. "What's a well-travelled lad like you doing at Hogwarts?"
Private. That had been the rule for years. It still sat inside me out of habit.
"I came with Remus," I answered. It was not a secret; Dumbledore had made sure the school records were in order. It continued to feel unusual to say it out loud to someone I barely knew.
"Oh," she noted and nodded once as if it matched what she had guessed. "Yeah, I've seen him about. He is hard to miss."
She paused. Her eyes stayed on my face for a moment longer than before. "So are you," she added, with a small shrug and a half-smile.
Heat reached my hairline. I stepped back without thinking, and the book slid against my hand. I caught it before it fell and felt my ears grow hotter.
"I… I should go," I blurted, too loud. "I'm going to be late for Divination."
She did not move. One eyebrow lifted. "You're heading the wrong way," she pointed out lightly.
I kept walking and must have nodded. My legs moved on their own, and Ginny's voice stayed with me.
So are you.
The words sat clear in my head along the corridor and up the stairs. The common room warmth dropped away. In the next passage, the air was cooler, smelling of old ash and stone dust. The carpet runner gave way to bare flagstones. A boy in second-year robes squeezed past with a stack of textbooks and muttered a quick apology when his sleeve brushed my arm. I tightened my hold on the book and picked up speed.
On the first landing, I crouched to tie my shoelace. The end had gathered grit and left a faint smear on my fingers. I wiped it on the hem of my robe and stood again. A portrait on my right shifted in its frame, and an aged wizard cleared his throat. I kept my eyes forward. My breath came a little faster than it needed to. I slowed it and counted to three between each step.
The turn to the North Tower never stayed simple. I took the narrow staircase that opened near the old armour stand and climbed. The bannister was cold and rough where the varnish had worn; my footsteps echoed down the stairwell and then softened as the angle changed. A draught slipped down the shaft and cooled the sweat at my hairline. I blinked to clear my eyes and carried on.
A slit window at the next bend revealed a strip of pale sky. Light fell across the step and showed the uneven dips in the stone where years of feet had passed. My shoulder brushed a threadbare tapestry, and a faint smell of dust and wool rose. I moved it aside with my knuckles and turned left.
By the time I reached the upper corridor, my breathing had settled. The air up there always felt thinner. The stones held the day's chill, and the sound from the lower floors faded to a dull murmur. I could hear my own steps and, under that, the soft scrape of someone else's shoe leather.
Professor Trelawney came into view from a side passage with her arms full of shawls. Layers of fabric hung from her elbows and trailed behind her. Deep colors adorned the fabrics, and beads trimmed the edges, clicking together as she walked. Her perfume reached me before she did. It was heavy and sweet, with a floral note that sat on the back of my tongue and left a strange taste. I swallowed, and it did not shift at once.
She stopped when she saw me and peered as if the angle of the light might play tricks. Her glasses made her eyes look very large. They widened further and then narrowed a fraction. Her mouth parted and closed again. She glanced at the book in my hand and then at my face, as if checking she had the right person.
"Ah, the transfer student," Professor Trelawney announced, folding her long, ring-heavy fingers together. "I felt an unfamiliar energy this morning. Something guarded and hard to read. A boy who walks where others do not."
I blinked, forcing down a sigh. "Er… okay," I muttered, already regretting not having feigned illness to skip the class altogether.
She swept past me without waiting for a reply, her many shawls billowing behind her as if a breeze had followed her in. She reached the front of the classroom and, with all the self-importance of a queen taking her throne, draped her shawl across the nearest table before sinking into her high-backed chair.
The room was nearly full; incense smoke hung in the air, and the space felt uncomfortably warm. Fragrant fumes curled lazily, while the faint reddish glow of suspended lanterns cast dancing shadows on the tented ceiling.
I couldn't concentrate. My thoughts kept veering off-course, away from the class, the vague scent of lavender and rosemary that clung to Trelawney's shawls, and straight back to Ginny.
Her words still echoed in my head, far louder than they had any right to. So are you.
It wasn't just distraction—it was discomfort too. Being seen, even for a moment, felt risky. Dangerous. I wasn't used to it.
I'd replayed it over and over since leaving the common room: her voice, her smile, and the spark in her eyes when she'd said it. I couldn't tell if she was teasing or serious, or both. And for the life of me, I wasn't able to figure out which possibility made my heart beat faster.
"A mix of sixth and seventh-year energies," Professor Trelawney observed. "Interesting combinations."
I didn't know what that meant, but it probably explained why some of them appeared young to be in their final year.
I scanned the classroom quickly, looking for an empty seat—anywhere I could keep my head down, finish the hour, and get out without making a bigger fool of myself.
And then I saw her.
Of course.
Ginny Weasley.
The filtered autumn light spilled through the hazy glass and caught the red in her hair near the window where she was already seated. She was leaning back with the sort of ease that made it look like she didn't have a care in the world, her elbow resting on the desk, her chin balanced in her palm. Her locks had mostly escaped the ponytail now, falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Her Quidditch uniform was rumpled, and one of her sleeves had a subtle smudge of mud.
She seemed as if she belonged there, utterly and entirely.
And then she looked up.
Our eyes met. For a second, maybe two. Her lips twitched, the beginnings of a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth; faint, knowing.
Almost… triumphant.
My heart gave a traitorous lurch, but I forced myself forward. She was just a girl. Another student. Only Ginny Weasley.
That's what I told myself anyway.
The only empty chair, naturally, was beside her. Fate, or Trelawney's twisted sense of humour.
Wordlessly, I sat, trying not to notice her uniform's scent or her fingers tapping on the edge of the table. I didn't dare look at her. Even without seeing it, I could feel her smirk.
Instead, I forced my attention to the blackboard, where Professor Trelawney had scribbled her elaborate handwriting:
Page 96: Palmistry: Lines of the Hand and What They Reveal
Palmistry. Fantastic.
Of course. The one subject was about showing what I had spent years trying to hide.
I opened the textbook with a bit more force than necessary and found the page, pretending to read. The words blurred. I blinked and tried again.
And then, through the heavy air, her voice rang out—high, lilting, unmistakable.
"Mr Potter."
I jerked slightly, my heart skipping.
"Yes, Professor?"
Trelawney drifted forward, her shawls trailing after her. She hovered just ahead of her desk, eyes wide behind her magnifying glasses, her arms clasped in front of her like some great oracle awaiting prophecy.
I sank lower on the bench, hoping she'd pick someone else. Being noticed in this class felt dangerous, even if it was only over a book.
"Since you are new," she intoned, "perhaps you would do us the honour of reading today's passage aloud?"
I swallowed hard. Nodded. "Alright."
"And maybe," she added, tilting her head, "you might share with the people here your interpretation. Page ninety-six, if you please."
Ginny shifted slightly beside me, and out of the corner of my eye I saw her fold her arms, clearly settling in to be entertained.
I cleared my throat, trying to ignore the sudden dryness there, and began reading.
"Palmistry is the ancient art of reading the human hand. The lines that traverse one's palm—the Life line, Heart line, Head line, and Fate line—reveal truths about a person's emotional state, lifespan, and destiny. The presence, absence, or depth of these lines can offer glimpses into future struggles or triumphs. A long life line suggests vitality, while a forked heart line may signify sentimental conflict… or romantic turmoil…"
The words trailed off slightly on the last row. I felt Ginny shift again next to me. I didn't dare look at her.
The universe clearly had a sense of humour—specifically mine.
There was a small, lengthy pause before Trelawney exhaled a long, theatrical sigh.
"Yes… fascinating, isn't it?" she murmured. "The secrets our very flesh holds. If only we knew how to see, so much has already been written about us."
She turned to face me directly now, her gaze suddenly sharp despite the foggy lenses. "And what, Mr Potter, does that passage mean to you?"
I hesitated. Part of me wanted to shrug. Another part—the larger part—was painfully aware of the girl sitting beside me.
"I suppose…" I began slowly, "it's saying that we're carrying signs of what's coming. Maybe our paths are already determined, even if we haven't noticed them."
There was a brief hush. Then, from behind the thick rims of her glasses, Trelawney's eyes lit with something between pride and foreboding.
"Very good," she said. "And do you believe it?"
I could feel Ginny watching me again.
I paused, then stated carefully, "I think… sometimes people want to trust in an idea so much, they see meaning where there isn't any."
There was a long stillness; even the incense seemed to sit.
Trelawney didn't blink. Her lips parted just slightly. "Hmm," she mused finally. "How very pragmatic of you, Mr Potter. But remember… Even the most rational minds may find themselves turned by the unseen. The future does not always wait for belief."
She looked away then, her shawls rustling softly as she glided toward the next row of students, lost in whatever private vision she was already spinning.
The room returned to its indistinct murmur.
I shifted lower in my seat, dragging my eyes back from the textbook and fixing them determinedly on a speck of dust floating. After a moment, curiosity won out, and I risked a sideways glance at Ginny.
She was smiling again, but it wasn't the cheeky, smug smile from earlier. This one was quieter. There was a stillness to it, thoughtful, almost—like she was weighing something up inside her head and hadn't quite decided whether to say it aloud.
"Romantic turmoil, then?" She murmured under her breath, her voice pitched low enough that no other person could hear.
I didn't turn my face. Just stared straight ahead, pretending to study the chalkboard. "It's in the book," I answered flatly.
She made a soft humming sound, flipping a page in her own textbook with deliberate slowness. "Mmm. I'm sure."
I couldn't trust myself to reply. My brain felt a few seconds behind everything, as though it hadn't caught up from the moment she'd looked at me with that unreadable expression.
The rest of the lesson passed in a blur, not entirely thanks to Professor Trelawney's ever-burning incense burners, which were currently producing enough smoke to make my eyes water, but more because my thoughts refused to stay tethered to anything sensible. Now and then I'd catch the scent of Ginny's shampoo, or maybe it was just her, and forget completely what we were supposed to be learning.
Trelawney was gliding between the tables now, voice soft and dreamy as she addressed the class.
"Now, my dear ones… We shall begin our first practical of the term. You must pair off. Grasp your partner's hand. Examine the lines carefully. The truth is written there, waiting to be discovered…"
There was a scuffling of chairs and rustling of parchment as everyone turned to their neighbours.
Before I'd even moved, Ginny had already extended her hand across the table, palm up. Her fingers were open in invitation; steady, relaxed. Her eyebrows lifted.
"Go on, then," she prompted simply, as though daring me. "Get on with it."
I stared at it. Her hand was slender, warm, and freckled from the summer sun. A few calluses marked the base of her fingers—Quidditch, no doubt—and her nails were short and neat.
I hesitated. It wasn't the hand itself. It was what it meant—to take it. To look. To read her in some way.
"It won't bite," she added, her lips quirking into the faintest smirk. "No need to appear so glum."
I gave in slowly, reaching out. The moment our fingers touched, my pulse stumbled. Her skin was warm and steady. It shouldn't have felt like much, and yet, somehow, it did.
I cleared my throat, tore my eyes from our joined hands, and glanced at the diagram in the book. It might as well have been in Gobbledegook. None of the lines made sense, and I was fairly certain my brain had taken the rest of the period off.
"Right," I managed, feigning a confidence I didn't feel. "This one… that's your Life Line, I think. It's long. Which probably means, er… long life."
Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Probably?"
"Well, it's not exactly guaranteed, is it? No one's handing out certificates."
She gave a quiet laugh. "Go on."
I tried to focus. My finger hovered over her palm. "Your Heart Line…" I murmured, more cautiously now, tracing it lightly. It curved upward, running toward her index finger. "That's meant to mean… you're expressive. Open with your feelings. Affectionate. Maybe even a bit… passionate."
Her eyes lifted to meet mine then. "Maybe?" She echoed, voice soft.
I felt my ears go hot. "Look, I'm just reading what it says. Don't hold me responsible for the translation."
I pulled my hand back a little too fast, as though the contact had stung. I busied myself flipping pages, pretending I was suddenly fascinated by the fine art of interpreting thumb mounds.
But Ginny continued.
"My turn," she declared lightly, before I could object. Her fingers closed around my hand and turned it gently palm-up.
She didn't hesitate. Her touch was sure but not rough.
"Your Head Line's strong," she observed almost absent-mindedly, tracing the centre of my palm. "Means you're clever. Thoughtful. Bit too serious, probably."
I gave her a dry look. "You got all that from one line?"
She didn't even blink. "It's in the book," she replied innocently, though the corner of her mouth twitched.
Her thumb moved lower. "This one's your Fate Line," she noted after a pause. "It is deep. That suggests outside forces have shaped your life more than most people's."
I kept that to myself. Divination can be vague, but it pulls on things people notice, and I did not want anyone to notice anything that might make them ask uncomfortable questions.
Her fingers stilled.
"It doesn't always mean something bad," she added quickly, softer now. "Just that the world around you… has a louder say than most people's."
I didn't speak. My throat felt too tight for words. She wasn't wrong. That line on my palm may as well have been the story of my life, carved by the choices of others, rewritten by the charm that had stolen my name and left the rest of me behind.
Trelawney's voice cut through the classroom then, rising over the murmurs. "Now, now! Focus, all of you. The lines speak only to those who truly listen."
Ginny released my hand and leaned back in her chair.
"You've got a complicated palm," she remarked quietly, eyes fixed on me now. "Difficult to read."
I opened my mouth to answer, but something in her expression stopped me. She wasn't teasing. Not this time. There was gentleness there. Like she saw more than I was letting on.
The bell chimed. Chairs scraped and books snapped shut. A low swell of chatter rolled through the room as students rose to gather their things.
Ginny stood first, slinging her bag over one shoulder.
"Divination's always good for a laugh," she said breezily. "See you around then, mystery boy."
And just like that, she was gone, vanishing into the corridor in a swirl of red hair and careless confidence.
I remained where I was for a few moments longer, staring down at the lines etched into my palm. My hand still sensed the shape of hers long after she'd left.
Complicated. That felt right, especially for someone who should not exist.
Hermione spotted me the moment I stepped out of the Divination stairwell. Her head turned in that purposeful way of hers, and her eyes narrowed, as if she had just found a missing page in a planner.
"There you are," she called, relief flickering behind the usual bossiness. She'd probably been circling the corridor for hours, knowing I'd lose track of time again. "I've been waiting ages. Come on, we're going down to the Great Hall. I'm absolutely famished."
I fell into step beside her, still feeling a little disoriented; whether from the incense or the strange thrum that lingered in my chest after that lesson, I wasn't sure. The conversation with Ginny kept coming back to me and would not go away.
Hermione was already talking again, brisk and efficient as always, filling the corridor with the rhythm of her voice. It felt oddly grounding.
"Oh—and I nearly forgot," she remarked, glancing sideways at me as we made our way past a huddle of Third Years arguing over Chocolate Frog cards. "Hogsmeade this weekend. You're coming with me."
I blinked at her. "Hogsmeade?"
"Yes, Harry," she announced theatrically. "You do know the village with all the shops? The Three Broomsticks? Zonko's? An actual high street?"
"I know what Hogsmeade is," I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. "I just didn't realise I was already on the invitation list."
Hermione gave me a flat look. "You are now. Honestly, you've been with Professor Lupin every spare minute since you got here. You need a break."
"He only worries if I vanish for too long," I said, though she wasn't wrong. I omitted that he had every reason to. Secrets didn't keep themselves. "Anyway, I should probably check with him beforehand."
Remus insisted on approving all trips for the first few weeks. The Order liked to monitor, but most of them only spoke to him, not me.
She shrugged. "Tell him he's welcome to join us if he can tear himself away from his marking. Though I doubt Professor Lupin spends his Saturdays queuing for Honeydukes."
That made me smile this time. "No… probably not his thing."
We reached the Entrance Hall and joined the flow of students making their way into lunch. The room was full of chatter and cutlery; warmth poured out from the enchanted ceiling overhead, casting a gentle light across the house tables.
Hermione tugged at my sleeve, gesturing toward Gryffindor. "Come on. I need food before I start hexing people."
I was in the middle of following her when my eyes landed on Ginny.
She was about halfway down the bench, wedged between two of the Gryffindor Chasers, laughing at something one of them had just said. Her posture was relaxed, shoulders swaying slightly with the rhythm of her laughter, and she was holding a pumpkin pasty in one hand as if she'd forgotten it was there. Some strands of her hair slipped free and caught the afternoon sunlight after she pulled it back in a loose tie. For a second, it almost glowed.
I realized again how ordinary it all looked. How far it was from anything I'd known.
And then she turned and saw me.
Our eyes met, and I stopped moving.
The sounds of the hall faded to a dull murmur, and the warmth in my chest twisted into something sharper I couldn't name. I didn't even think to look away this time, and neither did she.
Her expression remained the same, not at first. But there was something in her stare that unsettled me—a steadiness that felt too close to recognition. Then, gradually, her lips curved into a smile. The grin reached her eyes, and she meant it for me.
My chest dropped. Not with fear, but with a sharp, unfamiliar weight that told me the moment would stay with me without needing to analyse it, that this moment—this exact look—had lodged itself somewhere deep, it would not be easily shaken free from.
And then Hermione nudged me.
"Harry," she pressed, slightly pointed. "You all right?"
I blinked, snapping out of it. "Yeah," I answered quickly. "Fine."
She gave me that stare when she knew I was lying but hadn't yet brought up the issue. "You've got that look again."
"What look?"
"The same one Ron gets whenever he sees something to eat."
I huffed a short laugh, trying for nonchalance. "It's nothing. I'm just hungry."
Hermione didn't seem convinced when she glanced at Ginny, but thankfully, she let it go and led us to a spot at the far end of the Gryffindor table. I sat down, forced myself to pile food onto a plate, and tried to act normal. Like I hadn't only stumbled into something that would make keeping a low profile impossible, or might undo every careful piece of the life Remus and I had built.
Her smile kept replaying in my head, clear and certain.
And part of me, one I wasn't quite ready to admit out loud, didn't want it to fade. Not when being seen, even for a moment, felt like remembering who I was.
Hermione hadn't missed it, not that I'd been terribly subtle. Apparently, everyone could see it on me. The lingering glances, the way I seemed to tune out mid-conversation whenever a certain redhead walked past. And she addressed it with all the tact of a Bludger to the ribs.
"I'm not sure she's your type," she ventured, her tone careful but laced with that unmistakable note of warning as she reached across the table for a ladle of gravy and then began arranging slices of roast chicken on her plate with infuriating precision. "Ginny, I mean."
I blinked. For a moment, I hadn't registered she was speaking to me at all. My mind had been elsewhere, still echoing with the sound of Ginny's laugh from earlier that afternoon, and haunted by the memory of her hand in mine during Divination.
"Sorry—who?" I asked, not quite convincing.
Hermione gave me a look. One eyebrow arched in mild disbelief, curls bouncing slightly as she tilted her head. "Don't insult my intelligence, Harry."
I attempted a shrug, though I had the sinking feeling it looked more guilty than nonchalant.
"Ginny Weasley," she declared plainly. "Quit looking at her. Honestly, you nearly walked straight into a suit of armour yesterday outside the Charms corridor."
I tried not to smile. I really did. "That happened only once."
Hermione folded her arms. "And twice during our free period, and again this morning. Don't think I haven't noticed."
I picked up a fork and stabbed absentmindedly at the potatoes on my plate. My appetite had waned somewhat. "Right."
"I'm just saying," she continued, with the measured tone that meant she'd rehearsed this in her head, "you might want to give it some thought. Ginny's… not who you imagine she is."
I looked up at her then. "Meaning?"
Hermione gave a little sigh through her nose, as though she hadn't wanted to be the one to say this, but someone had to. "She's well liked," she explained carefully, "but she can cause trouble. People talk. She keeps people guessing and rarely makes things easy for others. Ask around; boys who go after her do not always come away smiling."
Funny, how warning me only made me want to understand her more.
"Trouble?" I echoed, frowning. "She doesn't seem deliberately cruel."
Hermione paused, fiddling with the edge of her napkin. "I didn't say she was cruel. Just… inconsistent. One minute Ginny's laughing with you; the next she's off pretending it never happened. And she's turned down practically everyone who's tried. Dean Thomas, for starters—Ron mentions it was awkward for ages after that."
I nodded slowly, though something about the way she said it didn't sit right. "So what? She says no, and suddenly she's the villain?"
"She leads them on," Hermione added, her voice a touch sharper now. "She doesn't mean to, I think. People are kept at arm's length by her. Lets them in, then panics. It's not exactly kind, but I can understand it."
I leaned back slightly. "Are you saying she misleads others on purpose?"
She hesitated, her lips pressing into a line. "No. Perhaps not on purpose. But it still happens."
I stared at my plate, attempting to process the tangled thing she was trying to tell me.
"Maybe she's just… waiting for the right person," I murmured quietly. "Someone who doesn't make everything worse."
"And you think that's you?" Hermione asked.
Her question landed harder than I expected. Part of me wished to say yes because I wanted it to be true. Another part of me counted all the factors that made me unsuitable: the secrecy, the orders, the habits. I said, "Maybe. I don't know."
I wasn't certain whether I was worth Ginny's time. And yet, there she was, always at the edge of things. Impossible to ignore.
"She's still hung up on Michael, you see," Hermione added more softly now. "She won't admit it, but… well, you wouldn't spend months with someone and just forget overnight."
That surprised me. "You think that's what this is about?"
"I believe," she said quietly but firmly, "that she's not ready for anything real. Not yet. And I'd prefer not to see you get hurt."
There it was—the real reason. It wasn't only gossip or judgement. It was a concern. Protective, maybe overbearing at times, but genuine all the same. I knew Hermione was speaking from the heart.
"Right," I replied at last. "Thanks. I'll bear that in mind."
She seemed to accept that, nodding slightly. Then, as if to clear the air, she gave a sudden, exaggerated groan and dropped her fork with a dramatic clatter. "Honestly. Enough about Miss Weasley. I really hope you're coming to Hogsmeade this weekend. I need a break. You need a break. We all need a break."
I let out a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. "Yeah… sounds good."
Hermione grinned and nudged my elbow. "Brilliant. We'll drink too much Butterbeer, browse a few shops, and maybe even hex Pansy Parkinson if we're feeling ambitious."
I laughed, though the noise felt a little hollow. Across the Great Hall, Ginny was chatting to Katie Bell, her hands animated as she spoke, her hair tumbling over one shoulder in a way that seemed completely effortless.
I looked away before she could catch me.
But the image lingered with me anyway. The kind that settles in before you realise it's too late.
Her smile stayed with me as I ate.
Something had changed, and for once, I didn't know whether it would save me or expose me.