"Let's go." Hermione's voice was soft. Harry did not move. He sat at the edge of the Gryffindor table, the pumpkin juice before him completely cold, fine beads of condensation covering the glass. His wand was still tucked into his belt, its tip pointing upward, candlelight flowing along its length, but he was not looking at it. He was only watching the retreating figures disappear.
Ron stood beside him, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. "They—they—they knew perfectly well you weren't—" His voice caught in his throat like a fishbone he could not swallow.
"Let's go," Harry finally said. His voice was calmer than he had expected, so calm that it felt unfamiliar even to him.
By the time the three of them left the Great Hall, half the lights in the corridor had already dimmed. The magical torches burned brightest when masses of students passed by; once the crowd dispersed, their flames automatically lowered, leaving only a dim passageway where one could barely see the path. When Harry entered that passageway, there were still quite a few people in the corridor. Not the kind of "quite a few people" gathered together chatting, but the kind scattered in twos and threes, pressed close to the walls, keeping their distance as they headed in different directions.
But the moment those people saw Harry, it was as though an invisible hand had pressed pause on them all.
A Hufflepuff girl was the first to make a sound. She was probably in her third year, with brown hair in two braids and a heavy History of Magic textbook clutched in her arms. She had been saying something to her companion, a strained smile still lingering at the corner of her mouth after recovering from the fright of the