You hadn’t meant to stay for summer.

But things got complicated. They always did. Some families broke in loud, explosive ways. Yours broke in silence, in absences that stretched too long to ignore.

So when McGonagaII offered a quiet room in the castle for the summer, you took it. You packed light. You kept your head down. You expected to be alone.

Then there was Harry.

He showed up three days later with a suitcase that had a snapped handle and a look on his face like the world had finally given him too many things to carry. He didn’t say much the first week. Just nodded when you passed in the corridor, or mumbled something about the weather. You were polite. Careful.

But things kept happening.

He’d appear in the library at the same time as you, pulling dusty books off shelves with a quiet sort of curiosity. You once caught him sitting cross-legged on the floor of the Astronomy Tower, humming something that sounded vaguely like a Muggle song. He had toothpaste in his hair once, and when you told him, he shrugged and said, “It’s mint-flavored. Adds character.”

And then he started talking.

Not all at once. But in fragments. In small, sideways comments.

“You always read before breakfast? That’s suspicious behavior.”