The Space Between Us

The library was unusually quiet for a Wednesday evening. Not that the Hogwarts library was ever particularly loud, but tonight, it felt like the air itself had been muffled. Like sound didn't want to intrude.

I kept my head down, eyes scanning a text on advanced magical theory. Something about Ley Lines and magical bleed patterns. Not important. Just busywork. It kept my fingers moving, my brain occupied. Anything but stillness.

But even through the crackle of candlelight and the whisper of turning pages, I felt her eyes.

Hermione sat across from me. No book in front of her. No quill. Just arms folded and expression sharp as a scalpel. I didn't look up. I didn't need to. Her silence was a blade, and I was already bleeding.

"Where's the Diary?" she asked.

Straight to the point. No preamble. No soft lead-in. Just truth served raw.

I turned a page. Didn't answer.

She waited.

After a full minute of me pretending to read and her absolutely not pretending anything, I sighed and closed the book. Slowly. Deliberately. As if buying time might somehow work.

"Gone," I said.

"Gone where?"

"Just gone."

Her eyes narrowed. "Sky."

"Hermione," I replied, matching her tone with a forced smile.

She leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You disappeared for three days. Dobby's been jumpier than usual. The Diary vanished without a trace, and every time someone says the word 'books' around you, you act like they mentioned taxes."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, then shrugged.

"Maybe I'm just trying to be mysterious. Girls love a mysterious man."

"Not when that mystery could hurt people, or in this case, make you act oddly suspicious." she said flatly.

She wasn't angry. That was the terrifying part. She was calm. Quiet. Surgical. Like a healer setting a bone by breaking it first.

"Look," I said. "It's handled. It's not coming back. I made sure of it."

"You mean we didn't."

"Because you didn't need to."

She stared at me like I'd just confessed to theft. Which, to be fair, I had. Many times. But this time it wasn't funny.

"That's not protection, Sky. That's control."

"Control," I repeated. "Really?"

"Yes. Because you keep deciding what I get to know, when I get to know it, and whether I'm 'safe' enough to handle it. That's not care. That's manipulation."

"I was trying to keep you safe."

"And I didn't ask you to."

I stood up abruptly. Too abruptly. The chair scraped back with a screech, earning a shush from Madam Pince in the distance. Hermione didn't blink.

"I had to do it alone," I muttered, softer now. "You don't understand how dangerous it was."

"Then help me understand," she said. "But you didn't even try. You just vanished and expected me to stay in place like a good little side character."

That one hit harder than I wanted it to. I exhaled slowly, pressing my palms to the table, grounding myself.

"It wasn't about you," I said.

"I know it wasn't about me," she snapped. "That's the problem. You think you're the only one allowed to fight."

"Because I am the only one who can afford to take the risk!" I snapped back, louder than I meant.

More shushing. More stares.

I sat again. Slower this time. Rubbed my temples.

"You think I don't want your help? That I don't need you? You're the only reason I haven't lit this castle on fire half a dozen times."

"Then stop treating me like a liability," she whispered.

That quiet was worse than shouting. It was too honest.

"Fine," I said eventually. "You want the truth? Come with me."

She didn't speak right away. Just stood. Stared. Then nodded once, curtly. And followed.

We moved in silence through the library, past shelves of sleeping books and stairwells that groaned with the age of secrets. I led her not to the Gryffindor common room, but to the unused corridor behind the tapestry of Gregory the Smarmy. One knock, one twist of the enchanted gear I carried in my pocket, and the trunk expanded into its full warehouse form.

The ladder dropped. The lid creaked open. And down we went.

The inside of the warehouse trunk felt like another world. Which, to be fair, it kind of was. Pitched in deep corners and cluttered shelves, the space buzzed with half-finished enchantments and magical refuse. It was my chaos—undistilled and unedited.

Hermione stepped in behind me, arms crossed. I could feel her trying not to look impressed.

"This is where you go when you disappear," she said.

"Sometimes. It's quiet here. No portraits. No eavesdropping staircases."

I walked over to a small shelf. Pulled down a jar. Set it on the table.

The label read: Do Not Shake. Or Lick.

Inside was ash. Not normal ash. Magical residue still clung to it like static.

"The Diary," I said. "Or what's left of it."

Hermione didn't touch it. She just stared.