#mooney

Ever since Cassius had given you his advice, the evenings had changed. After dinner, you and the Slytherins slipped quietly into the Room of Requirement. The door shimmered into existence only for you, opening into a chamber that transformed itself each night: practice dummies lined the walls, spellbooks stacked neatly on tables, and enough space for every student to spread out. It had become your sanctuary—and theirs.

One week had passed. One week of sparks, laughter, frustration, and determination.

You raised your wand again. “First: the Impediment Curse. Impedimenta. It slows your opponent, buys you time. Not flashy, but effective.”

You demonstrated, wand slicing through the air. A dummy froze mid‑stride, its movements sluggish, as though wading through water.

“Your turn.”

They lined up, one by one. Matteo’s spell hit true, the dummy stumbling. Blaise’s flick was sharp, slowing it almost to a crawl. Pansy muttered under her breath, her spell sputtering, earning a chorus of teasing.

“Oi, Parkinson,” Theo called, grinning. “Try aiming at Lorenzo. He’s already slow.”

“Shut it, Nott,” Lorenzo shot back, though his grin betrayed him.

You hid a smile. Their banter was constant, but beneath it was effort. Determination. Fear.

Next, you moved to Incantatem. “This one’s tricky. It occurs when wands with shared cores connect. It creates a reverse spell effect. You’ll feel the pull, the resistance. Don’t panic. Push through.”

Draco frowned. “Shared cores? You mean like mine and Potter’s?”

You nodded. “Exactly. If it happens, you need to know how to hold your ground.”

They practiced, pairs facing off, sparks colliding mid‑air. The room filled with light, the sound of magic clashing sharp against stone. Some faltered, some held steady, but all learned what it meant to resist.

When the light dimmed, you lowered your wand. “Good. Now—something older. Something rarer.”

They leaned in, curiosity sparking.

“Sacrificial Protection,” you said softly. “It’s ancient magic, fueled by love. It’s what saved Harry Potter as a child. It’s not something you can practice—it’s something that happens when you choose to give everything for someone else. Remember it. Because sometimes, love is stronger than any curse.”

Silence pressed heavy. Even the laughter faded. You saw it in their faces—the weight of families, of expectations, of war. Children who had grown up with fear instead of joy.

Finally, you lifted your wand again. “And the Patronus Charm. You’ve all tried. You’ve all struggled. That’s alright. It’s not about skill—it’s about memory. About joy. About hope. Even if you can’t summon one now, keep trying. Because when the Dementors come, this is the only thing that will save you.”

Draco muttered, “Still don’t have enough happy memories.”

You met his gaze, steady. “Then make some. Here. With each other. With me. Every laugh, every joke, every moment—it counts. Don’t underestimate it.”

Theo smirked, though his voice was softer. “So you’re saying we should keep flirting with you. For practice.”

The room erupted in laughter again, the tension breaking. You rolled your eyes, but warmth spread through your chest. They weren’t bad kids. They weren’t lost causes. They were just… children, trying to survive.

And as the week closed, you realized Cassius had been right. You couldn’t erase the shadows, but you could give them light. You could give them spells, hope, and maybe—just maybe—a chance.

Hogwarts was buzzing. The air itself seemed lighter, charged with anticipation. The Yule Ball was coming, and the castle had transformed into a hive of whispers, laughter, and nervous confessions. Students darted through corridors, asking each other out with flushed cheeks and trembling hands.

You couldn’t walk through the Great Hall without overhearing someone’s plans. Ron Weasley had finally manned up and asked Hermione Granger out—something half the school had been betting on for weeks. Draco Malfoy strutted about with smug satisfaction, already paired with Astoria Greengrass. Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson had made their arrangement with a smirk and a wink, while Cho Chang and Cedric Diggory were the picture of perfection, their hands brushing together as they walked.

Out of all the Hogwarts couples, Cho and Cedric were your favorite. There was something genuine about them, something soft and unguarded. In a castle filled with shadows and secrets, their laughter felt like sunlight.

The excitement spilled into every corner. Girls huddled in stairwells, comparing dress robes. Boys whispered nervously about dance steps. Even the professors seemed lighter, their sternness softened by the joy that pulsed through the halls.

You had heard that the Marauders and Lily would attend together, for old times’ sake. James, Sirius, Remus, and Lily—arm in arm, a picture of nostalgia. Whatever. You had better things to do.

Your evenings were already claimed. After dinner, you slipped into the Room of Requirement with the Slytherins, teaching them spells that mattered more than dance steps.

The corridors were quiet, the usual hum of chatter fading as you wandered alone. Torchlight flickered against the stone, shadows stretching long across the walls. You were halfway down the staircase when you heard it—soft, broken, unmistakable. Weeping.

You slowed, heart tightening, and followed the sound. The steps curved, leading into shadow, and there he was.

Harry Potter.

He sat hunched on the cold stone, head tucked between his knees, shoulders shaking with each ragged breath. His glasses were crooked, his fists clenched tight against his robes, as though holding himself together by sheer force.

For a moment you froze, the sight so unexpected it felt unreal. The Boy Who Lived, the one whispered about in every corridor, the one whose name carried weight heavier than any child should bear—crying alone on a staircase.

You stepped closer, careful not to startle him. “Harry?”

His head jerked up, eyes red, cheeks streaked with tears. He blinked at you, startled, as though caught in something shameful. His lips parted, but no words came, only the sound of his uneven breathing.

You lowered yourself onto the step opposite him, leaving space, your voice soft. “It’s alright. I heard you.”

Harry scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand, trying to hide the evidence, but the tears kept slipping through. His shoulders trembled, his gaze darting away, as though he couldn’t bear to be seen like this.

The silence stretched, broken only by the faint rustle of the castle settling around you. You didn’t press, didn’t demand. You simply sat there, waiting, letting him know he wasn’t alone.

And slowly, Harry’s breathing steadied, though his eyes still glistened. He looked at you again, hesitant, as if weighing whether to speak.

At first, Harry’s words came broken, stammering, caught between sobs.

“I–I… it’s just… Ginny…” His voice cracked, his hands twisting against his knees. “I heard she’s… she’s planning on going with Dean. Dean Thomas.”

You tilted your head, surprised. “Dean?”

Harry nodded miserably. “Yeah. I mean… that’s what people are saying. And I—” He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. “I can’t stand it. I’m practically in love with her. But she’s Ron’s sister. My best friend’s sister. I can’t tell Hermione, because she’d tell Ron, and then—then everything would be ruined.”

You hesitated, biting back the truth you knew. You’d seen Dean snogging Seamus in a quiet corner weeks ago. Dean wasn’t exactly the type to be chasing Ginny. But Harry didn’t know that, and right now, his pain was real.

Harry,” you said softly, “sometimes rumors aren’t the whole story. Don’t torture yourself over what you’ve heard. Focus on what you feel.”

He scrubbed at his face, voice still trembling. “But what I feel—it’s too much. She’s all I think about. And I can’t tell anyone. Not Ron, not Hermione. They’d never understand.”

You leaned closer, steady. “Then tell me. I’m not them. I won’t judge.”

Harry’s eyes flickered, uncertain, but he pressed on. “It’s not just that. I don’t want to trouble my parents with… with these minor things. They wouldn’t understand anyway. They’ve got this perfect relationship, filled with love. They’ve never had to deal with… with this.”

The words stung, sharp against your chest. Perfect relationships. Love that shielded, love that protected. Things you had seen from the outside but never truly held, or well once held.

You swallowed, forcing your voice calm. “Harry, love isn’t perfect. It’s messy, complicated, sometimes painful. But that doesn’t make it less real. What you’re feeling—it matters. Even if it feels impossible.”

He shook his head, tears slipping again. “It feels like I’m drowning. Like I can’t breathe unless she’s near me.”

You let the silence stretch, then said quietly, “Then maybe that’s your answer. Don’t hide it forever. Even if it’s complicated, even if it’s risky—sometimes saying it out loud is the only way to stop drowning.”

Harry’s gaze met yours, raw and uncertain. His breathing steadied, though his hands still trembled. For the first time since you’d found him, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—not joy, not yet, but the faintest spark of hope.

Remus had been wandering the corridors, book tucked under his arm, when he heard it—the faint sound of weeping. His steps slowed, his chest tightening. He followed the sound toward the staircase, and then he saw him.

Harry.

The boy sat hunched, shoulders shaking, head buried against his knees. Remus’ heart clenched. He was about to step forward, to offer comfort, when another figure appeared. You.

You moved quickly, quietly, settling beside Harry with a gentleness that made Remus pause. He stayed back, hidden in the shadows, watching. He couldn’t hear the words, but he saw the way Harry’s shoulders eased, the way his breathing steadied, the way you leaned in just enough to show you were there.

And something inside him flipped.

His stomach twisted, not with hunger or nerves, but with that dizzying rush he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager. Seeing you there, treating Harry with such care, almost like he was yours—it broke something open in him.

His girl.

The thought came unbidden, sharp, undeniable. But no. Not anymore. Not after what he had done. He didn’t deserve to think of you that way. He didn’t deserve the warmth of your presence, the steadiness of your care.

Still, watching you with Harry shattered him in all the best and worst ways. It was agony, yes, but it was also something else—something that reminded him of what he had lost, of what he had ruined.

You and Harry eventually rose, leaving the staircase together. Remus stayed behind, rooted to the spot long after the sound of your footsteps faded. The torchlight flickered against the stone, shadows stretching long, and he stood there, silent, broken, yet unwilling to move.

Finally, he turned, making his way back. When he reached the others, he said nothing of what he had heard—because he hadn’t heard anything. But he told them what he had seen. Harry crying. You beside him. The way you had stayed until he was steady again.

And though his words were simple, his heart was anything but.

Hogsmeade was bustling, the cobblestone streets alive with chatter and laughter. Shops glittered with displays, windows filled with gowns and robes shimmering in candlelight. The Yule Ball fever had spread beyond the castle walls, and somehow, you had been swept into it.

Dress shopping. With the Slytherins.

You hadn’t planned it, but when Theo, Pansy, Draco, Lorenzo, and the rest had begged—half‑teasing, half‑serious—you couldn’t say no. Being their favorite teacher came with side effects, apparently. And so here you were, trailing behind a gaggle of teenagers who darted from shop to shop, squealing over fabrics and colors.

Pansy tugged at your sleeve, eyes sparkling. “Professor, you have to help me pick. Theo’s useless.”

Theo smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “I told her green. She said no. I told her black. She said no. Honestly, I think she just likes disagreeing with me.”

“Maybe she just doesn’t trust your taste,” you teased, earning a chorus of laughter.

Draco was already inside, holding up a set of silver‑trimmed robes. “Astoria will love this. Don’t you think?”

You raised a brow. “If you’re asking me, Draco, I’d say it’s a bit much. But Astoria might like the drama.”

He smirked, satisfied. “Exactly.”

Lorenzo, meanwhile, was draped dramatically across a chair, sighing. “Why is no one helping me? I need something that says mysterious yet devastatingly handsome.”

“Try a paper bag,” Theo muttered, earning a shove.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Alright, alright. One at a time. Pansy, let’s start with you.”

The shopkeeper bustled about, bringing gowns in every shade. Pansy twirled in emerald silk, frowned at midnight blue, and finally lit up in a deep burgundy. “This one,” she declared, spinning. “Theo, admit it. I look stunning.”

Theo rolled his eyes, but his grin betrayed him. “Fine. You look stunning.”

The others groaned, but the warmth in the room was undeniable.

As the evening wore on, you found yourself swept into their excitement. Matteo argued over cufflinks, Blaise debated between velvet and satin, Daphne whispered about dance steps, and Astoria teased Draco mercilessly. They laughed, they bickered, they pulled you into every decision, treating you less like a professor and more like a friend.

And though you reminded yourself daily of the shadows that clung to them, tonight was different. Tonight, they were just teenagers, giddy over gowns and robes, dreaming of dances and music.

The excitement of Hogsmeade hadn’t worn off yet, but the Slytherins weren’t finished. Dress shopping had been chaotic enough, but now they wanted more. Something different. And so, after hushed whispers and daring glances, you found yourself leading them past the edge of the wizarding world, slipping quietly into the Muggle one.

For you, it wasn’t forbidden—you had permission to cross whenever you wished. But for them, it was rebellion, a thrill. Their laughter echoed as you guided them down unfamiliar streets, their eyes wide at the sight of cars, neon signs, and shop windows filled with things they didn’t understand.

Finally, you reached the park. A simple Muggle park, with swings creaking in the breeze, children chasing each other across the grass, and the faint hum of traffic in the distance.

Theo was the first to break the silence. “So this is it? A park?” He smirked, but his eyes were curious.

“Don’t mock it until you try it,” you said, nudging him toward the swings.

Lorenzo eyed the slide like it was a puzzle. “Do Muggle children actually play on this? Seems… primitive.”

Matteo laughed, shoving him lightly. “Go on then, try it. Bet you’ll scream.”

Draco, surprisingly, was already testing the swing, his robes awkwardly bunched as he pushed off. “Alright, fine. This is… oddly satisfying.”

Pansy twirled in the grass, her gown bag tucked under her arm. “It’s peaceful. No magic, no noise. Just… normal.”

You watched them scatter, their laughter filling the air. Blaise tried the seesaw with Daphne, both of them shrieking when it tipped too fast. Theo eventually gave in, sliding down with a dramatic yell that earned applause. Even Draco, usually so composed, laughed freely as the swing carried him higher.

For a moment, they weren’t Slytherins. They weren’t children marked by war or burdened by family expectations. They were just teenagers, discovering something new, something simple.

After days of laughter and mischief—sneaking into the Forbidden Forest to play hide and seek, charming the Gryffindors’ door so it only said quack whenever someone knocked—you were back in the Room of Requirement. The air was charged with anticipation. Tonight was different. Tonight, you were teaching them the Patronus Charm again.

The younger ones had already surprised you. With ease, their Patronuses burst forth—silver light filling the room, shapes bounding across the floor. A fox darted past, a hare leapt gracefully, a small owl fluttered above their heads. Their faces glowed with pride, their laughter ringing out.

But your attention shifted to the older students. The ones who had struggled. The ones who carried heavier shadows.

“Alright,” you said, voice steady, wand raised. “Focus. Expecto Patronum. Remember—this isn’t about skill. It’s about memory. About joy. About hope.”

Draco stepped forward first, jaw tight, wand trembling slightly. “Expecto Patronum!” he called. For a moment, nothing. Then, light burst forth, silver and strong, shaping itself into an alligator that lumbered across the floor, tail sweeping. Draco’s eyes widened, disbelief melting into pride.

Theo followed, his smirk fading into concentration. “Expecto Patronum!” Silver sparks erupted, forming sleek lines, a cheetah racing across the room with impossible speed. Theo laughed, breathless. “Merlin—I actually did it.”

Lorenzo’s turn. He lifted his wand, muttering the incantation. The light swelled, shaping into a jackal, its eyes gleaming, its stance protective. Lorenzo grinned, triumphant. “Told you I was mysterious.”

Matteo’s spell roared into existence, a tiger prowling, its stripes shimmering in silver light. He stood taller, chest swelling with pride. “Now that’s more like it.”

Astoria’s Patronus unfurled in elegant wings, a swan gliding gracefully across the room. She twirled, laughing, her face radiant. “Beautiful,” she whispered.

And Pansy—her wand flicked, her voice sharp. “Expecto Patronum!” A raven burst forth, wings beating strong, circling above her head. She smirked, eyes gleaming. “Dark, dramatic, perfect.”

The room erupted in cheers. They shouted, laughed, clapped each other on the back. Pride and happiness lit their faces, silver light dancing around them. For the first time, they weren’t weighed down by shadows. They weren’t children marked by war. They were just students, triumphant, celebrating their own strength.

You stood back, watching, your chest tight with something fierce and warm. Cassius had been right. These moments mattered. These memories—the laughter, the joy, the triumph—were the ones that would save them.

And tonight, they had proved it.

The Owlery was quiet, save for the rustle of wings and the soft cooing of owls settling into their perches. The air smelled of feathers and parchment, familiar now, almost comforting. Cassius was there, as always, tending to a tawny owl with gentle hands. He looked up when you entered, his smile faint but steady.

“Back again,” he said warmly. “You’ve had quite a week, haven’t you?”

You laughed, leaning against the stone arch. “That’s one way to put it. Between sneaking into the Forbidden Forest to play hide and seek, charming the Gryffindors’ door so it only said quack whenever someone knocked, and then—well, the Patronus lesson… it’s been a lot.”

Cassius raised a brow, amused. “That was you?”

You grinned. “Harmless fun. They’ll survive.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “And the Patronus lesson?”

Your smile softened, the memory warming your chest. “They did it, Cassius. All of them. The younger ones managed easily, but the older ones—the ones who struggled—they finally broke through. Draco’s Patronus was an alligator, Enzo’s a jackal, Matteo’s a tiger, Theo’s a cheetah, Astoria’s a swan, and Pansy’s a raven. You should’ve seen their faces. Pride, joy… it was like they’d finally proven to themselves they weren’t just shadows of their families.”

Cassius listened quietly, his eyes thoughtful. “That’s remarkable. You’ve given them something they didn’t think they could have. A memory strong enough to fight darkness.”

You exhaled, leaning back against the wall. “It felt like more than just a lesson. It felt like… hope. For them. For me.”

Cassius nodded slowly, his voice steady. “That’s what you’re doing, [Name]. You’re giving them hope. And in times like these, hope is the most powerful magic of all.”

The owls rustled above, feathers drifting down like snow. You stood there with Cassius, the weight of the week easing just slightly, knowing that in the quiet of the Owlery, you could finally breathe.

The Owlery was hushed, feathers drifting down like snow as Cassius leaned against the stone wall, listening to you recount the week. You were mid‑sentence, laughing about Theo’s dramatic slide in the Muggle park, when the flutter of wings interrupted.

An owl swooped down, landing neatly on the railing before you. Its leg bore a letter—addressed to you.

You frowned, startled. Nobody you were friends with knew about Hogwarts. Your friends were all Muggles, and those who knew of the wizarding world weren’t close enough to send letters.

Cassius tilted his head. “For you?”

You nodded slowly, fingers trembling as you untied the parchment. The handwriting was sharp, familiar in a way that made your stomach twist. You unfolded it, eyes scanning the name at the bottom.

Petunia.

Your breath caught. Petunia Dursley. Of all people.

You swallowed, voice low. “Petunia. She… she wrote to me.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Petunia, who had always kept herself apart from the wizarding world, who had resented it, feared it, denied it. And yet here was her letter, in your hands.

Cassius leaned closer, curiosity flickering. “What does she say?”

Your mind drifted back to the Muggle world, to the days you had spent with her. Petunia wasn’t easy—sharp edges, clipped words, a constant air of disapproval—but she had let you in, if only a little. You had shared ordinary moments, the kind that felt almost foreign after the chaos of Hogwarts.

You remembered helping with chores, folding laundry, even cooking simple meals. And then there was Dudley. A cute, smart kid, eager to show off his drawings, his little victories. You had helped him with his schoolwork once, and his grin when he understood something had been enough to soften even Petunia’s sternness.

Vernon, though… Vernon was harder. He gave off rude vibes, his voice booming, his presence heavy. Yet, beneath the bluster, he wasn’t all bad. He had his moments—small, fleeting glimpses of care for his family that reminded you he wasn’t just the caricature everyone painted him to be.

And now, here was Petunia’s letter. A bridge between worlds you had thought would never meet again.

Cassius tilted his head, voice low. “You’ve spent time with her before, haven’t you?”

You nodded slowly, fingers tightening around the parchment. “Yes. In the Muggle world. It was… different. Ordinary. Almost peaceful. And now she’s writing to me. I don’t know why.”

The owls rustled above, feathers drifting down, as the weight of the letter pressed against your chest. Whatever Petunia had written, it mattered. It meant something.