The corridors were silent as I reached Remus's door. Torches burned along the walls and made patches of light on the flagstones. The portraits were still in their frames; some had their heads turned down and their shoulders dropped as if they were dozing.
My heart was racing. Every step echoed off the stone, and the distance between doors seemed to stretch as I walked. The folded note in my pocket was still there, creased from being unread since dinner; it said seven o'clock. It was already eleven.
The corridor clock ticked behind me. Each click made the apology I rehearsed in my head sound smaller and less useful.
Light showed under his door. I stopped with my hand raised and my breath sharp in my chest. The door opened before I reached for it.
Remus stood barefoot in the doorway, sleeves rolled. He had clearly been here for hours.
On the mantel, a little pewter wolf sat with a faint silver glow, and it bobbed once when he moved. When I stepped closer, the wolf's eyes gave a single, slow blink. A low string of protective beads hung from a nail by the books; each bead was stamped with a tiny ward. A strip of parchment with neat half-finished script lay beneath a paperweight that resembled a tiny silver stag. The text stopped mid-line, the last word underlined by an ink that shifted shade when the room cooled, a small charm to keep the letters from running.
Remus's wand caught the torchlight, dull but tidy. His expression was not anger; it was the kind of calm that comes from turning something over in your head for hours.
"Evening," he murmured softly. "You're late."
"I know. I'm sorry—"
"Come in."
He stepped aside. I obeyed.
The table was still set. Two plates and glasses. On the sideboard, a small brass clock had runes scratched around its face; it did not tell the hour so much as count safe moments. A pot steamed on a low charm so it would stay warm.
"You haven't eaten," I blurted before I could stop myself.
"No," he answered simply. "I was waiting."
The weight of it hit harder than I expected.
"Remus, I didn't mean to—"
"You were with Ginny," he put in.
"Yes. We talked. She wrote to me and asked to meet. I lost track of time."
He turned his wand in his hand and watched me. "Four hours?"
"I hadn't realised," I told him. "I'm sorry."
"That's the problem," he cut in, still quiet but sharper now. "You never know until after. You failed to check the time. Or send an owl. Or—Merlin forbid—remember that someone might be waiting."
"I came, didn't I?"
"Eventually." He gave a short, humourless laugh. "You've got a strange idea of showing up."
"Remus—"
"I sat here for two hours," he went on, voice tightening. "Then another. I thought something had stopped you or you had gotten hurt. You've been gone before, Harry. Please don't tell me you do not understand what that does to someone. After what happened with that drink a few weeks ago, do you think I can simply assume you're safe when you disappear for a long time?"
The words cut through the fog of my excuses. I had pushed that night out of my mind: the smell of the spiked beverage, the burn in my throat, the way his face had gone white when he found out. I pretended it was not important, and that I was alright, because it meant I wouldn't have to experience that look again. The one that said he'd already pictured the worst. I had been so focused on getting back to normal that I forgot it was not safe.
I had planned to come straightaway. I had told myself I would. But I let the hours slip, thinking I could make it up to him later. He usually understood. Not after the drink that nearly killed me, he did not.
"I didn't mean for you to worry."
He laughed again, quietly this time. "You didn't mean to. You never do."
"I just wanted a moment to breathe."
"Breathe?" His eyes narrowed. "I cleared my evening for you. I made dinner. And you needed air?"
The frustration broke loose. "You're not my dad, Remus," I threw at him. "You can't tell me where I go whenever I leave."
He froze. For a long, heavy instant, neither of us spoke.
"No," he answered at last, quieter still. "No, I am not your father. But I stood at his grave and promised I'd look after what he left behind. And at this moment, you're making that nearly impossible."
"I don't need to be looked after."
"Really? Because you almost died weeks ago, and tonight you vanish without a word."
"I'm fine now."
"Are you?" He lifted his wand a fraction. I felt a tug in my pocket, and my wand slid out, as if pulled by an invisible string, and landed neatly in his grasp with a soft clack. He closed his fingers around it and held it up so I could see. He did not wave it away; he simply tucked it into his robe and kept his hand on it until we'd finished speaking.
"Oi! What are you doing?"
"Making sure you stay long enough to listen."
"You can't just take it!"
"I can if it keeps you safe."
"That's not fair!"
"Fair?" He raised an eyebrow. "You think this is about fair?"
He gave the door a short flick. For a second, the air along the frame shimmered, and I could see faint runes burn orange for a breath before fading. When I pressed my hand to the wood, the ward pushed back and did not yield. It pricked the skin at the base of my fingers and left a subtle ringing in my ears. There was a clean, metallic tang to the air, like the smell of struck flint.
"You warded it?" I whispered.
"You will stay here tonight and the next day," he instructed. "You'll have your wand again when I say, and only then."
"Remus, you can't be serious—"
"I've never been more so."
"This is insane!" I took a step forward. "You can't keep me here. Ginny's expecting me tomorrow."
"She'll survive a few days without you."
"That's not the point!"
"It is," he shot back sharply. "Because you've had your fill of distractions. You have stayed up late, not eaten, and not done your work. Tonight, you'll take a seat, eat something, and stop acting like a child."
"I'm not hungry."
"Sit."
The word landed heavily. I obeyed, hating myself for how quickly I did.
He set a plate in front of me and sat opposite, his own food untouched. The teapot hissed once as he poured; the steam came in a neat column and faded rather than spreading. Small soot marks on the hearth formed straight lines—Remus's quick warding practice, not a mess.
"Eat," he told me quietly.
"I said I'm not—"
"Harry."
One word. Flat. Final.
I picked up the fork anyway, more out of stubbornness than obedience. The scrape of metal on porcelain sounded like guilt.
Each bite turned heavier in my mouth. The meat had gone cold; the potatoes had the faint waxy film they get when left too long. It wasn't about the food. It was about proving something. That I could still obey, maybe. That I hadn't forgotten how.
I remembered the last meal we'd shared that didn't end in silence: somewhere in a dingy safe house; he had coaxed me to eat stew from a chipped bowl while maps and coded notes covered the walls. He'd watched me then too, quiet but patient, until I'd finished every bite. I had failed to remember what that kind of patience looked like.
The fork scraped the plate. I dropped it and snapped, "Happy now?"
Remus's face softened for a moment. "Refusing to consume food won't fix this," he warned. "I'm not punishing you, but I am trying to stop you from running yourself ragged."
He picked up his own fork, more from habit than hunger. "You've hardly eaten proper meals for days. You can sit there and sulk or eat. Your choice."
I glared at the plate but grabbed the fork again. The food still tasted like dust.
"You think this is unfair," he conceded. "And maybe it is. But I've learned that keeping you alive sometimes means being unjust," he added.
I didn't look up. "You don't have to treat me like a prisoner to do that," I retorted.
"That's not what this is," Remus countered evenly, his voice low but steady. "This isn't punishment for punishment's sake, Harry. It's about what your choices say to the people who wait for you."
I frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.
He met my eyes, calm but unyielding. "When you walk away from a promise, when you do not turn up after someone's made time for you, it tells them they don't matter. That's what you did tonight. You disrespected my availability. My concern. And you did it without thinking," he accused.
The words hit harder than a shout would have. I opened my mouth, then shut it again. The guilt burned somewhere deep in my chest.
Remus exhaled slowly. Some of the anger bled out of his expression, leaving only exhaustion. "You're better than that," he told me. "That's why I'm disappointed. Not because you made a mistake—Merlin knows we all do—but because you didn't think it mattered."
I felt something inside me twist, sharp and small. He did not sound angry anymore, but I'd heard that tone before, the one he used in battle, when fear had to sound like command. It shook me more than if he'd shouted.
"You frightened me tonight," he admitted. "After that drink a few weeks ago, I will not let you vanish without telling me. I have to know you're safe. You've been back barely a month. You are still learning what normal looks like. Every time you start to settle, you throw yourself into something or someone until you lose your footing."
The words landed heavier than any hex. I'd heard fear twist his voice before, out in the field, when the only thing louder than your pulse was the spellfire, but never to this extent. This was personal. This was his admitting that I still mattered enough to scare him. I didn't know what to do with that.
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are," he snapped firmly. "You keep running until someone stops you. And tonight, that person is me."
I looked up then, meeting his eyes. They weren't angry. Just tired. Worn down to the bone.
"This is not about control," he insisted. "It is about trust. They have given you a second chance, Harry. Do not waste it proving you do not need anyone."
The words lodged somewhere deep, where they could ache properly.
He stood and crossed to the door. "You'll stay here tonight. Sleep. We'll start over in the morning."
"Remus—please—"
"I mean it."
The latch clicked softly as the ward sealed.
The silence lingered after his footsteps faded.
I stayed where I was, staring at the locked door, the plate of half-eaten food still cooling beside me. My fingers quivered. I could not tell whether it was anger or guilt.
I had come to apologise. I had meant it. But now it just felt like I'd handed him one more reason to doubt me.
I sank into the chair, elbows on the table, head in my hands. The silence filled every corner. It was suffocating.
Remus wasn't cruel. Even when he lost his temper, there was always care under it: he'd taught me wards, fought beside me and fed me when I forgot. He had been the closest thing I had to family.
But he didn't trust me enough to leave the door unlocked.
You frightened me tonight.
The echo of his voice lingered. That was what hurt most; not the anger, not even the confinement. The fear underneath it. The look he got when he imagined the worst before it actually happened.
He thought if he held me still, the world couldn't take me again.
And maybe that was the only way he knew how to love me now, by keeping me safe, even from myself.
I pushed the plate away and stood up, pacing the small stretch of room between the bed and the desk. The boards creaked under each step, the sound a steady metronome of frustration.
Five steps to the wall. Five back. Again. Again.
I hated locked doors. The latch click always made the world smaller. In the safe houses, bolted doors had meant safety; now they felt like a reminder that I had no say.
I had told myself I'd let no one shut me in again. But the world had a way of repeating itself, just with different walls.
"I'm not going anywhere," I murmured, half a promise and defiance.
The ward gave no answer.
I slid down until I was sitting against the door, knees drawn up, head resting back. The shadows stretched long across the floor; the candles burning low.
Quiet could be harder than noise. One minute it felt like peace; the next it left too much time for thoughts that would not stop.
I thought of Ginny then: her laugh and the warmth in her voice when she spoke my name. She had been expecting me tomorrow. I'd promised.
The guilt hit hard. She'd understand, probably. But that wasn't the point. I was tired of being someone people had to figure out.
"This isn't fair," I muttered under my breath. "I said I was sorry."
The words sounded smaller than I meant them to.
Maybe Remus was right. Perhaps I sometimes acted as a kid: I was too defensive, too reckless, and too desperate to prove I wasn't broken. But he did not understand what it felt like to have others constantly watch me and remind me that one wrong move could unravel everything.
He couldn't see that locking me up only made it worse. That quiet didn't calm me. It hollowed me.
The candlelight flickered again, thin trails of wax running down the holders. I watched the flames sway, my eyes growing heavy.
I heard him shift once beyond the wall. His breathing was slow and steady. Knowing he was awake too caused the quarters to feel less empty.
The candles burned down to stubs, their light trembling against the warded walls. I could hear the faint tick of a clock somewhere in the room, the kettle cooling on its stand, and the castle's distant creak. It all sounded too alive for a place so still.
I remembered another night—years ago, a partially collapsed safe house after a raid, me half-conscious on a sofa while he muttered healing charms under his breath. I'd woken to the same smell of tea and candle wax, the same quiet vigilance. He hadn't slept then either. Some part of me knew he wouldn't tonight.
I stared at the closed door until my eyes blurred. Somewhere beyond it, he'd be marking essays, drinking tea gone cold again. Maybe both of us were serving a sentence neither could escape.
For a moment, I almost knocked, just to say goodnight, or sorry, or something in between. But I didn't.
Instead, I whispered it to the room, barely above a breath.
"Goodnight, Remus."
I dragged a blanket off the sofa and settled near the hearth. I could still feel the ward's low pulse through the floorboards. Somewhere beyond the wall, Remus's footsteps shifted, and I let the echo pull me under.
The sound of clinking porcelain pulled me from sleep.
For a moment, I didn't know where I was. The walls looked too clean, the air too still. Then it came back: the argument, the ward, the silence that had stretched until I'd fallen asleep.
Morning arrived slowly. My neck ached from sleeping on the floor. The breeze smelled of dust and warm beverages.
Somewhere nearby, I heard soft movement: the scrape of a chair, the pour of water. He was already awake. Of course he was. Remus didn't really sleep; he just waited for the next thing that needed fixing.
When I finally lifted my head, I saw him sitting by the small table, a pot of tea steaming between us. A breakfast tray rested beside him: eggs, toast, and porridge, still warm enough to mist the air. He looked maddeningly composed, the same way he did after a duel: tidy, steady, as though nothing had happened.
I pushed myself up slowly. My eyes felt gritty, my throat raw.
"Morning," he murmured, without looking up.
I didn't answer straightaway. I rubbed at the crease in my sleeve, searching for words.
"You're up early," I muttered.
"So are you," he replied mildly, pouring tea into two cups. The simple movement—ordinary, unhurried—made my chest tighten. It shouldn't have felt so normal after everything.
I stood and tested the door with my palm. The ward pressed back, steady and unyielding.
"You are wasting your time," Remus observed without turning. "The charm will hold until tomorrow."
I dropped my hand. "You're really not going to lift it?"
He glanced over at me, calm as ever. "Not until we've had another day of quiet. And breakfast."
He gestured to the tray.
I hesitated. "I'm not hungry."
"You said that last night," he reminded me evenly. "Sit down."
Something in his tone left no room for argument. I sat mostly because standing made me feel like a child about to be scolded again.
He slid a mug towards me. "Tea. Drink it before it cools."
I wrapped my hands around the cup, more for warmth than anything. The steam blurred my vision for a second. I stared at it, at the swirl fading into the light.
"I wasn't trying to disrespect you," I began after a moment. "I just—"
"I know," he cut in. "But you did. When you vanish like that, after the poisoning and everything else, Harry, it isn't only rudeness—it's fear. After the entire ordeal, you still don't see how that feels for the people waiting."
"I'm sorry."
His silence wasn't disapproval this time. It was understanding. Somehow, that hurt more.
"When people count on you, Harry," he went on, "being thoughtless is the same as being careless. You can't afford that here, not with who you are or what you represent."
His voice softened, almost weary. "You owe it to yourself and to the people who believe in you to start showing up."
We sat like that for a while. The quiet between us wasn't sharp now; it was softer, waiting. It appeared he was giving me space to find the right words.
"I didn't like hearing you say I disappointed you," I muttered finally, keeping my eyes on the mug.
"I did not enjoy having to say it," he returned.
I nodded slowly, unsure what to do with that.
The light shifted, warming the table. Dust drifted lazily in the air, catching the glow. The silence stretched again, this time almost peacefully.
"I refuse to be locked away again," I admitted at last. The words came out quieter than I meant but heavier for it. "Especially not by someone I trust."
Remus looked at me for a long moment before setting his mug down. His eyes were tired but steady.
"I don't want to be the person who has to do it," he confessed. "But I will do so if it keeps you from going astray."
I bit the inside of my cheek. There wasn't anything to say about that.
"That's not what I wish for, Harry. You are aware of that."
I nodded again. I knew. But guilt sat heavy on my chest, even now.
"I'll do better," I promised finally.
"I know you will."
Somehow, that hurt more than a lecture would have. He still believed me. He still had faith.
Remus shifted back in his chair, leaning forward slightly, hands clasped together in that deliberate way he always had when holding himself steady. His tea had gone untouched. The tension in his shoulders gave away more than his calm expression ever would.
I watched him from the sofa, hardly breathing. The ache from last night hadn't dulled; it had just settled deeper.
His voice was composed when he spoke. The words landed like another lock turning.
"You will stay here today."
My heart sank.
"No visitors," he added. "No exceptions."
I blinked. "But—"
He raised a hand to stop me. "You'll do your coursework," he instructed. "Read. Write. Clean if you want. But you are not to leave, send or receive any messages until I decide otherwise."
My jaw tightened. "Not even a note?"
"No," he stated flatly.
I stared at him. "Remus—please. Only a quick one. I'll owl Ginny and let her know I can't come. It's not fair to just disappear again—"
"No," he repeated, firmer now. "You'll do nothing of the sort."
The words hit hard. My mouth opened, but no sound came.
"You forfeited that freedom last night," he declared.
"I didn't mean to," I said hoarsely. "I simply lost track of time; I told you that—"
"And I told you," Remus cut in, his tone maddeningly composed, "that I waited. That I worried. This—today—is about teaching you that your choices have consequences. You've spent too long deciding which rules apply to you and which do not. That ends now."
It wasn't just a warning. He meant it.
"You don't get it. She'll think I'm gone again."
"If she cares for you, a day's silence won't undo it," Remus countered, rising with the same quiet finality as before. "If she doesn't, you'll realize. And you will be all right."
That one landed deep. I flinched before I could stop myself.
"That isn't fair," I muttered. "You don't know the first thing about her."
"I have sufficient knowledge," he returned calmly. "And I understand enough about you to see that what you need is not romance or distraction; accountability."
The heat rose in my neck. "You think I'm using her?" I snapped, getting to my feet. "Is that it?"
"No," Remus countered, folding his arms. "I believe you're hurting. And you are trying to patch that hurt with anything that feels alive. But Harry, this isn't normal. None of it. And if you don't stop pretending it is, it's going to break you."
The words stung. My hands shook. I wasn't sure if it was anger or shame.
"I have to see her," I said finally, the statement sounding more desperate than I meant.
"You need," Remus insisted, stepping closer, "to face yourself. To sit in the quiet and let it teach you something."
I blinked hard, looking away. "That's easy for you to say. You don't understand what it's like, after everything, to wake up and not know who you're supposed to be."
His expression softened, only for a heartbeat.
"I am aware of more than you realise," he answered quietly. "But running from it won't help. It never does."
I sank back onto the sofa, shoulders slumping. The panic still stirred, but I forced it down.
"So what, I just sit here all day and do bloody homework?" I asked bitterly.
"If that's what keeps your hands busy, yes."
"No wand, letters, or contact at all."
"No," Remus confirmed. "You'll remain here—safe, grounded, disconnected. You won't be keen on it, but you will learn from it."
He said it like a sentence, not a punishment.
My voice cracked. "You don't trust me anymore," I whispered.
"I do," he assured gently. "That's why I'm doing this. If I didn't, you'd be in McGonagall's office explaining yourself. You're here because I care enough to give you a second chance. But that means you have to be mindful to take it seriously."
I pressed my palms against my eyes. "This isn't just about missing dinner."
"No," he agreed quietly. "It's about how you treat people who love you when you forget the world exists."
The silence closed in again, thicker than before.
He moved towards the door, pausing only long enough to give me a small nod. "I'll be in the study. I expect your Defence essay on my desk by dinner."
Before he left, he placed my wand on the table between the teacups; the handle turned so I could reach it.
"Are you giving me my wand back now?" I asked. "Did you change your mind? You're not going to check if I've written to her, are you?"
He paused, one hand on the door. "No," he said simply. "I'm trusting you not to use it to send messages. Only use it if I tell you. Understood?"
He closed the door softly behind him.
He was testing me.
And Merlin help me, I didn't know if I'd pass.
Trust. That word again. It sounded noble when teachers spoke it, but here it just hurt. He trusted me enough to hand back my wand but not enough to lift the ward. Maybe that was fair. Perhaps I hadn't earned more than that.
I turned the cup between my hands, watching the last streak of tea cool at the bottom. He thought this was discipline. Possibly it was. It could have been mercy.
Regardless, I wasn't sure which part of me he was trying to save: the fighter who couldn't stop or the boy who had no clue.
I sat there, the quiet pressing against my ribs until I could barely breathe. The ward still thrummed faintly at the edge of the room.
Ginny would wait only so long. One way or another, her patience would run out, or mine would, and I did not know which would break first.