Hogwarts – The First Week
Hogwarts was less a school and more a living puzzle.
By the end of the first week, Lennon had learned three important things:
1. The staircases had minds of their own.
2. Peeves, the poltergeist, was chaos in a bowler hat.
3. If you didn't know where you were going, the castle would eat you alive.
The Gryffindor first-years clung to each other as they navigated the labyrinth. Percy Weasley tried to guide them, but more often than not, they ended up following Hermione—who seemed determined to map every corridor in her head.
Charms with Professor Flitwick remained Lennon's favorite. His joy for magic was infectious, and she liked the precision it required. Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall, however, demanded perfection from the very first lesson. Lennon's matchstick had transformed into a needle before Ron's had even lost its splinters. McGonagall gave Lennon a single approving nod—quiet praise, but it warmed her more than she expected.
Hermione noticed. "You're really good," she said as they walked to Herbology.
"I practice," Lennon replied.
"We should practice together," Hermione suggested—firmly enough that Lennon realized it wasn't really a suggestion.
By Friday, they were already sharing notes, correcting each other's wand movement, and—much to Ron's exasperation—finishing each other's sentences in class.
⸻
Slytherin – Parallel Lines
In the dungeons, Mattheo moved differently now.
He didn't join in the loud boasting of Malfoy's crowd, but he also wasn't alone anymore. Theodore Nott had a quiet, dry wit that matched Mattheo's own patience. Lorenzo Berkshire was his opposite—loud, quick to laugh, with a habit of leaning too far back in his chair until it inevitably tipped over.
They found a rhythm in Potions class. Theodore handled the measuring. Lorenzo kept the conversation going. Mattheo kept the brew perfect.
"Do you ever smile?" Lorenzo asked on Tuesday, stirring lazily.
"When it's worth it," Mattheo said without looking up.
"Merlin's beard," Theodore muttered, "that's the most Slytherin answer I've ever heard."
The three of them didn't need to say they were watching each other's backs—they just did.
⸻
Flying Class – The First Incident
Friday afternoon, the Gryffindor and Slytherin first-years gathered on the training grounds for Flying Class.
Twenty broomsticks lay in neat rows on the grass. Madam Hooch's sharp eyes swept over them as she barked, "Stick out your right hand over your broom and say, Up!"
Most brooms twitched or rolled lazily. Harry's shot straight into his palm. Lennon's broom obeyed her instantly, though it was more a smooth float than a sharp leap. Mattheo's rose slowly, as if considering whether to trust him.
Then came the mounting, the kicking off—Neville's disaster.
The moment his feet left the ground, his broom shot upward like it was fleeing for its life. Neville hung on with white knuckles before sliding off and tumbling to the grass, his wrist bent at an unnatural angle. Madam Hooch rushed him to the hospital wing, but not before ordering everyone else to stay firmly on the ground.
That lasted all of thirty seconds.
Malfoy, grinning like a hyena, swooped down to snatch something from the grass—Neville's Remembrall. "Maybe if the fat lump had remembered to keep his feet down—"
"Give it here, Malfoy!" Harry shouted, stepping forward.
Malfoy shot into the air on his broom, calling, "Come get it, Potter!"
Harry didn't hesitate. Lennon felt her breath catch as he kicked off—rising higher, steadier, like he'd been born to it. Malfoy hurled the Remembrall across the field in a perfect arc, but Harry dived, his broom tipping almost vertical as he streaked downward.
He caught it inches from the ground.
The Gryffindors roared.
Unfortunately, so did Professor McGonagall's voice from across the lawn.
⸻
Harry Potter – A Seeker is Born
Everyone expected Harry to be in trouble. Lennon watched him disappear into the castle with McGonagall, Ron and Hermione whispering worst-case scenarios.
But when he returned an hour later, his grin was unstoppable.
"I'm on the Quidditch team," he said breathlessly. "As Seeker. Youngest in a century."
Ron nearly fell over. Lennon just shook her head, smiling faintly. "Figures."
⸻
Quiet Corners
That night, the common room buzzed with talk of Harry's feat, Fred and George loudly promising to protect him from Bludgers "or die trying." Percy rolled his eyes, muttering about broken school records.
Lennon and Hermione took refuge at a small table by the fire, books spread between them. They weren't studying so much as talking—about favorite subjects, about Hogwarts, about the tiny quirks they'd already noticed in each professor.
Hermione's friendship was sharp and warm all at once. She didn't let Lennon retreat into herself. Lennon didn't quite say it, but she liked that.
⸻
Slytherin Shadows
In the dungeons, Lorenzo tossed a Chocolate Frog card to Mattheo. "You hear about Potter? Youngest Seeker in a hundred years."
Mattheo caught it without looking. "He's making himself a target."
"Or a legend," Theodore said.
Mattheo didn't reply.
But later that night, as the common room emptied and the water whispered against the glass walls, he found himself thinking about the boy who flew without fear—and the girl who had looked worried instead of impressed.