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Chapter Text

"Welcome aboard, dear."

The trolley witch gave me a polite smile as she passed me a chocolate frog, taking the coins from my hand in the same motion. "First year?"

"I'm sorry?" I blinked, stepping aside so she could continue her way down the narrow corridor.

She laughed, tucking a stray curl of gray hair beneath her bonnet. "New, I mean. Staff. First year teaching?"

"Ah. Yes." I smiled faintly. "First year. Is it that obvious?"

"Only obvious to someone who's seen far too many firsts," she said with a wink, already moving on to the next compartment.

I watched her go, the smile fading as soon as her back turned. First year. The words felt heavier than they should have. First year teaching. First year at Hogwarts. First year without—

I shook the thought away and headed down the corridor, adjusting my coat as I searched for an empty compartment. Most were full of students laughing, changing into their robes, leaning out the windows in pairs. A few glanced up at me with curiosity. I heard one girl whisper, "That's the new professor," just as I passed.

My stomach tightened. Word traveled quickly here—faster than I'd expected. I wasn't ready to be seen yet. Not by students who'd expect answers I wasn't sure I had.

Eventually, I found a quiet, empty space and slid the door shut behind me, taking a seat. The bench had been warmed by the sun, and the window was fogged just enough to blur the hills outside into soft watercolor streaks.

I unwrapped the chocolate frog, and—true to form—it tried to leap the moment I opened it. A gentle twist of air caught it mid-jump and floated it neatly into my waiting palm.

Wandless magic—sometimes called elemental alignment or essencery—was still considered fringe in most magical education circles. And yet here I was, en route to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry… to teach it.

It felt surreal. Like I'd slipped into someone else's life.

Gideon had always talked about bringing me here someday—showing me the castle, the Quidditch pitch, the lake where he'd spent lazy afternoons between exams. A visit. Maybe a weekend. Not... this. Not alone. Not as a professor walking his old corridors like I had any right to them.

But honestly, ever since Gideon—

I closed my eyes and popped the frog into my mouth before the thought could settle. The sweetness cut through the ache. I couldn't afford to think like that. Not today.

This opportunity… it had been unexpected. A miracle, really.

I'd spent most of the summer holed up at the Leaky Cauldron, preparing lessons for a job I still wasn't sure I could do. But the day Dumbledore first brought me to Hogwarts—the day he made the offer—the castle had taken my breath away. It had reminded me of Ilvermorny in all the best ways—grand, ancient, alive. Seven towering stories perched above a mirror-still lake, deep in the Scottish Highlands. It was breathtaking. Even after spending the last decade of my life in the magical world, that sort of wonder had never really left me.

The lake especially—black and endless—had held my gaze longer than it should have.

And it meant more to me than just a beautiful view. This was the school Gideon had attended before transferring to Ilvermorny. I'd heard countless stories about it—about the moving staircases, the four Houses, the eccentric Headmaster with the twinkling eyes and gentle smile who had, in the end, sent me the owl that brought me here.

Dumbledore.

He'd met me at the gate then—a tall, slender man with long, graying hair and a matching beard, half-moon spectacles perched on his nose. His voice had been soft, his manner kind, and his condolences appropriately measured.

"Do you plan to return to America?" he'd asked as we climbed the steps toward his office.

"That was the plan," I said, my gaze drifting upward to the ever-moving staircases that crisscrossed in the endless space above us. "Gideon was the only thing keeping me here. My mother's still back in Louisiana."

Though what I'd do once I got there, I had no idea.

"Gideon was a good man," Dumbledore said quietly. "And—if I may say—an exceptional cursebreaker. One of the finest I've ever worked with. He was invaluable during the War."

His tone carried weight on that last word. The War. As if Gideon's work had been more than just breaking curses.

"It was his passion until the end," I murmured, unsure what else to say.

When we reached a great stone gargoyle at the end of a corridor, Dumbledore spoke two simple words: "Acid Pops." The statue sprang aside, revealing a spiral staircase that began to rise of its own accord.

"You two were close?" I asked as we ascended, the question slipping out before I could hold it back. The owl he'd sent hadn't explained much, and Gideon had always kept me far from anything dangerous. I'd never known the full story. He'd wanted it that way—thought it would keep me safe.

"It's a shame he kept you in the dark," Dumbledore replied, side-stepping the question entirely as if he could hear the thoughts beneath it. "I'd heard you possessed a rather unique talent, one that might've been quite useful to us, had we known. But... that's in the past."

I blinked. Was he saying—? That my magic could have been useful during the War? The thought settled uncomfortably in my chest, tangling with the old resentment I'd felt whenever Gideon had brushed off my offers to help.

I wanted to ask what he meant—useful how?—but something in his tone suggested he wouldn't elaborate. Not yet. If he wanted to circle back, he would.

We entered his office, a curious room filled with odd whirring instruments and books that looked older than most buildings. He gestured for me to sit and then reached into a jar on his desk, lifting the lid with a pop.

"Sweet?" he offered, holding out a green lollipop.

I chuckled. "Made that mistake once. I'll pass."

He smiled and replaced the lid. "Sometimes the experience is worth the pain it causes in the end."

"Unfortunately," I said, swallowing hard. "I agree."

"What do you make of our school?" he asked, leaning back comfortably in his chair.

"Beautiful," I answered honestly. "I'm glad you invited me here to see it before I leave."

He gave a soft, knowing smile. "I was rather hoping I might convince you not to leave, actually, if I may."

I blinked, caught off guard. "Why wouldn't I leave?" I'd already made my plans. Booked passage home. Started saying goodbyes.

"If you're willing, I'd like you to consider accepting one of my open teaching posts."

"Teaching?" I laughed softly, shaking my head. "I can't do that. I never finished my own education. They broke my wand."

He peered at me over his spectacles, amusement dancing in his eyes. "But your expertise doesn't require a wand, does it?"

I stared at him. He smiled again, like he already knew the answer.

"I..." I hesitated, unsure how much to say. "I'm not exactly public about my abilities. They're different. Different enough that people treat you like something else."

The memory rose before I could stop it—whispers in Ilvermorny hallways, the way classmates had edged away when I'd lost control. Freak. Dangerous. I'd learned early to keep my head down, my magic quiet.

I met his eyes. "Are you asking me to teach it? To others?"

"I'm asking you to try," he said, leaning forward, his tone warm but earnest. "Most witches and wizards—well, they can barely graze the surface of what you're capable of. You say you're treated differently because of it. But what if we could introduce an entire generation of students to that difference? Then it's not so different anymore, is it?"

I exhaled slowly. "I don't even know if it's teachable, Professor."

"Call me Albus," he corrected me gently.

"Albus," I repeated before continuing. "I've tried before. With Gideon. He wanted to learn it, and we gave it a good effort. But it just... didn't take."

The memory still stung—hours spent in our small cottage, my hands guiding his, trying to help him feel the essence the way I did. He'd been patient, encouraging, but no matter how hard he tried, the magic never answered him. Eventually, we'd both stopped pretending it would.

"You learned it from others," he pointed out gently.

I stilled. How much had Gideon told him?

Those years—traveling from master to master, earning each apprenticeship, building an education from nothing after my wand was taken from me—that had been private. Something I'd clawed back for myself when the magical world tried to shut me out.

The thought of Gideon sharing it, even with good intentions, made my chest tighten.

"Yes," I admitted. "But I had a natural affinity—I'd been doing it instinctively since I was a child. It was blind luck that I found anyone who understood what I was trying to do after I was expelled. And even then, it took years of training under masters who barely agreed to teach me. That's not something I can replicate in a classroom."

"Exactly! Blind luck," he said brightly, as though I had just made his point for him.

I blinked. "What?"

"Answer me this," he said, tilting his head. "If there had been a teacher like that—someone who understood what you could do—when you were in school... do you think you ever would've been expelled?"

The question hung in the air, and I suddenly couldn't look at him.

I'd spent years telling myself the expulsion was inevitable—that I was too different, too volatile, too dangerous. But what if he was right? What if someone had just... understood?

I opened my mouth, then closed it again.

"It's... possible I wouldn't have been," I said finally.

He nodded, then stood, slowly making his way around the desk until he leaned against the front of it, arms crossed like he wasn't quite finished.

"Then if there's even one student here—just one—who needs the kind of guidance you once did… wouldn't it be worth taking that chance?"

His words settled in the space between us, heavy and inescapable. I wanted to argue, to list all the reasons this was impossible—but every objection I formed crumbled before I could voice it. He'd dismantled every defense I had.

Except one.

"But what if no one gets it?" The question came out quieter than I intended, almost pleading. "What if I spend the whole year trying to teach them, and no one learns a thing? Doesn't that make me a failure? Doesn't that mean I've wasted everyone's time?"

Dumbledore didn't flinch. He didn't laugh. He simply stepped forward, reached out, and wrapped his hand gently around mine.

"No, my dear," he said softly. "It's never a waste. Not if you try."

His hand was warm, steady—grounding in a way I hadn't felt since Gideon's funeral. The words settled over me like a promise, or maybe a vow I was making without realizing it.

I wanted to pull away, to tell him I needed time to think. But the truth was, I'd already decided. Maybe I'd decided the moment I'd stepped into his office. Maybe even before that—the moment I'd read his letter and felt, for the first time in months, like there might be a reason to stay.

That day had changed everything.

The compartment jolted beneath me, yanking me back to the present. I blinked, the memory dissolving like smoke.

Then I noticed the light had changed.

The world outside the window had gone dark—completely. The warm, amber glow that had filtered in just moments before had vanished, like someone had snuffed out the sun.

I sat up straighter, pulse quickening. It wasn't just dark. It was silent.

Unnaturally silent.

I couldn't even hear the wheels on the tracks anymore. The kind of silence that made your ears ring. Then came the cold.

Not winter cold—not even magical cold like I'd known in the far reaches of the Yukon.

No. This was different. Older. Deeper. Like something ancient had reached inside me and wrapped its fingers around my spine.

My veins burned with frost. My thoughts felt like they were sinking—heavy, slow, and choking with doubt. Darker thoughts than I'd let myself have in weeks. What if I wasn't enough? What if I failed them all? What if coming here was a mistake?

And I couldn't stop them.

I gasped, clutching at my coat, but the fabric offered no warmth. It felt like the heat had been stolen from the very air.

My eyes scanned the compartment wildly. The window was completely fogged over now, and when I exhaled, a pale puff of breath escaped me like smoke. My fingertips were going numb.

Something was wrong. Something was here.

I turned toward the compartment door—then I saw it.

Just beyond the frosted glass stood a figure. Cloaked. Hooded. It wasn't walking—it was drifting, hovering inches above the corridor floor. Its face—if it even had one—was shrouded in shadow.

I froze. My instincts screamed to move, to throw open the door and confront it. My hand reached for the handle—

But before I could grasp it, before I could even think...

I heard him.

Gideon.

His voice slammed through my mind like a curse, ragged and pained.

"Heather—no—!"

The sound dragged me under like a wave.

A flash of white. Blood in snow. His body—crumpled.

I couldn't breathe.

My vision blurred at the edges, the walls of the compartment tilting. The cold wasn't just outside anymore—it was inside me, cracking through every memory I'd worked so hard to bury.

No. No, no—

"Stop," I whispered, but the word caught somewhere between my throat and lungs, barely more than a breath.

I reached inward, desperate to find it—that spark, that anchor of warmth at the center of my chest. But the cold had sunk too deep. My magic slipped through me like water through cracked fingers. My hands trembled, my thoughts turned to ice, and the storm inside refused to break.

Then—a door slammed open.

Shouts. Screams. The world around me spiraled, out of reach, beyond sense. My vision blurred until the corridor was nothing but shadows and light and movement, and I—

Light.

Silver-blue and alive, it split the darkness like lightning through a blackened sky. For a moment I thought I saw a shape within it—something swift and graceful, bounding through the air—but the brightness made it impossible to focus. It was radiant and warm and real.

A surge of energy chased away the fog in my brain, the cold in my blood. My lungs filled again. The weight lifted from my chest.

The screams stopped.

My heartbeat slowed. The echo of Gideon's voice faded, receding back into the part of me I couldn't reach—not yet.

The memory was gone. Banished.

I gasped, blinking hard as the world snapped back into focus. My hands flew to my cheeks, wiping at half-frozen tears I hadn't realized were falling. I sucked in another breath, steadier this time, and stood on shaky legs.

What was that thing?

I yanked the compartment door open.

The corridor was dim and hazy, thick with cold that was beginning to recede, but I could just make out the silhouette of a tall figure at the far end. A man, wand lowered. The hooded creature—the thing—was gliding away from him like mist pulled on a tide.

Then his voice came, cutting through the heavy silence.

"Is everyone alright?" he asked—low, calm, but commanding.

I didn't answer him—not with words, anyway. I just started walking, fast and steady, down the corridor toward where he stood.

Behind me, compartment doors began creaking open one by one. Students peeked out—pale, shaken, some clinging to each other, some just staring blankly. The corridor filled with the soft sounds of whispers and muffled sobs.

Was I alright? I wasn't sure. My chest still ached with the ghost of that chill, my head throbbed with the remnants of something I didn't understand. But I was a teacher now. An adult. Whatever just happened, it wasn't something I could afford to crumble under. I had to act like I belonged here.

"What was that thing?" I asked as I reached him, breath short but even.

He looked me over with sharp eyes—calculating, calm—and I suddenly felt exposed. My hands were still trembling. My cheeks were still damp. I'd frozen while he'd fought. All around us, students were emerging, hollow-eyed and worse for wear.

"A Dementor," he said, finally lowering his wand and tucking it into his coat. "Are you a teacher?"

"I am," I said with a nod, still trying to settle into the word.

"Good. Find the trolley witch and get as much chocolate from her as you can carry. Pass it around to the students—especially the younger ones." His gaze swept over me again, sharper this time—assessing. "And make sure you eat some yourself."

There was no judgment in his tone. Not quite. But the unspoken implication was clear: You were hit hard, too.

My cheeks burned with embarrassment. "Right," I said quickly, already turning away.

But I still had legs. I still had breath. And I still had a job to do.

Chapter Text

Whether by chance, magic, or divine intervention, Edie Brocklebee—the trolley witch—had just enough chocolate left to go around. I managed to get some to every student on the train, even if a few pieces had to be broken in half and rationed among the ones who weren't shaking as hard. It cost me the last of the galleons I had brought with me—and still didn't quite cover it—but she waved off my apology with a warm smile and a wink.

"Don't you worry yourself over that, dear," she'd said, pressing the parcel into my arms like a secret mission. "I know you're good for it. Besides, kindness never goes unrewarded."

The task had turned into an unexpected blessing. The rush to hand out chocolate gave me the excuse to meet nearly every student on board—brief glimpses into what I was walking into.

Truth be told, I hadn't spent much time around children. Gideon and I never had any of our own. I was an only child, too. So the idea of being responsible for hundreds of them at once had been sitting heavy in my gut since I took the job. Even now, nibbling on my own sliver of chocolate, I wasn't sure I'd be any good at it.

But the thing was… they weren’t that different from adults. Just a little louder. A little more wide-eyed. Speaking to them in small groups—three or four at a time—was easier than I’d expected. Some were quiet and sweet. Some cracked jokes to hide how shaken they were. A few tried to brush me off with muttered “I’m fine”s and sidelong looks—mostly the ones in green robes—like cats pretending they didn’t want affection while sneaking glances the whole time.

I’d just smile, leave the chocolate anyway, and move on. More often than not, they’d be eating it before I made it three compartments down.

Eventually, I made it to the back of the train—the last compartment. The one the man who’d driven off the Dementor had retreated to. I paused, smoothed my coat, and knocked gently before sliding open the door.

“Ah. It’s you again,” the man said, looking up as I stepped inside.

Now that the chill had ebbed from my bones and the ringing in my ears had faded, I finally took a moment to really see him. He was thin, with light brown hair threaded through with silver and a tired kindness behind his eyes. His face was weathered, lined more by experience than age, and his patched robes hung loose from his frame like they’d lived through a few things themselves. There was something gently worn about him—like an old book you trusted more than a new one.

“It’s me,” I said with a faint smile.

The compartment was cramped but quiet. Huddled on one side sat a boy with untidy black hair, round glasses, and a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. His face was pale, and he kept one arm loosely braced on his knee, like he hadn’t quite relaxed. Beside him was a lanky redheaded boy with freckles, clearly trying to look unfazed, though he flinched when the train gave a slight jolt. Across from them sat a girl with bushy brown hair and slightly oversized front teeth. She held a chocolate bar in both hands like it was a lifeline. Next to her was a younger girl with the same red hair and freckles—likely the boy’s sister. She looked like she’d only just stopped crying.

“Does anyone in here still need chocolate?” I asked, glancing at each of them. “I’ve got a few small pieces left.”

“No need,” the man said, standing slowly and brushing off his robes. “I had a stash on me, thankfully. Came in handy.” He extended a hand toward me. “Remus Lupin. I’m the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

“Heather Winters,” I replied, shaking his hand with a firmer grip than I felt. “New teacher—I’ll be teaching Essencery. Or whatever they end up calling it officially. The name was still being decided when I left.”

His brow furrowed slightly, curiosity overtaking exhaustion. “Essencery. I don’t think I’ve heard that term before.”

“Wandless magic,” I clarified.

The bushy-haired girl’s voice was a shade too bright, the kind of cheer that sounded like it was holding something steadier in place. “We’re going to learn wandless magic this year? That’s… well, that’s exciting!”

At her words, the energy in the compartment shifted, the other students glancing up as if pulled out of their own thoughts.

I gave her a soft smile. “We’ll see how exciting it is after the first class. What’s your name?”

“Hermione Granger,” she said immediately, holding out her hand with the kind of earnest confidence I’d seen in plenty of grown witches twice her age.

I shook it. “Nice to meet you, Hermione.”

The redheaded boy sitting across from Hermione spoke up next. “Ron Weasley. And this is my sister, Ginny.” He nodded toward the younger girl, who gave me a small, polite nod without lifting her gaze.

She looked pale, even for someone with red hair. Her fingers twitched slightly against her robe sleeve, and I wondered if she'd managed to eat the chocolate Lupin had given her. The girl didn't look like she could stomach it.

"I'm Harry. Harry Potter," the last boy said quietly.

The name hit me like a bell in the back of my mind—familiar, famous, strange. The boy who lived. I hadn't expected him to be... well, so normal. He looked exhausted. Haunted, even. His glasses were slightly crooked, and he kept glancing toward the window like something might appear there again.

"Harry Potter," I repeated slowly, masking my recognition. I offered the same smile I'd given the others. "Nice to meet you all."

I turned back to Lupin. "Sorry I wasn't more help earlier. I've never encountered those... Dementor creatures before. How do you think it ended up on the train?"

He nodded, stepping back to give the students more space, his expression tightening in a way that told me he'd been thinking about this, too.

"It was allowed on. Dumbledore's given the Ministry permission to station Dementors around the school—given the circumstances."

I blinked at him. "Station them? You mean they can be controlled?"

"To an extent," he said carefully. "They respond to certain kinds of authority. That doesn't make them safe."

He glanced briefly at the students—especially Harry—then motioned toward the corridor. "Let's step outside for a moment."

He slid the door open and stepped into the hallway, pausing only long enough to be sure I was following. I glanced back at the students—still shaken but quieter now, watching us—and gave them a small nod.

Then I stepped out, letting the door click softly shut behind me, and followed Lupin toward the back of the train.

"Winters, huh? And American?" Lupin said as we came to a stop near the back of the train. "You must be Gideon's wife."

I blinked, caught off guard. "Uh—yes. I am."

"I was surprised to hear about his passing," he added gently. "I'm sorry. Truly."

"Thank you. You knew him?" I asked, my voice quieter now.

"Well enough," he said with a faint smile. "Good man. Brilliant, really. Passionate about everything in his life—including you. He spoke of you often."

A strange ache stirred in my chest. For a moment, I wondered what, exactly, he'd told Lupin about me, but I masked it with a polite smile. "That sounds like him."

He gave a soft nod, then studied me for a moment. "You'd really never heard of Dementors before?"

I shook my head. "No. As far as I know, MACUSA doesn't employ anything like that. And in my years traveling… I've never come across anything quite like that."

"Lucky you," he said dryly.

He paused for a moment, then asked, "Can you cast a Patronus?"

I winced slightly. "Unfortunately not. I'm... somewhat confined to my specialty."

Lupin studied me, not unkindly, but with the kind of look a Defense professor might give a student teetering too close to danger. "Then I recommend keeping as far away from them as possible. Do you understand?"

I nodded, more serious now. "Understood."

"What's the reason for them being here?" I asked. "Surely something this extreme can't be normal."

His expression sobered. "They're tied to Azkaban. Do you know what that is?"

"The prison," I answered.

He nodded. "There's been a break. A very dangerous prisoner escaped over the summer. The Ministry believes he may try to come here—to Hogwarts."

"Here?" I echoed. "Why?"

He didn't answer that right away, and I didn't press.

"So believe it or not," he said after a pause, "they're here for our safety."

My stomach twisted at the thought. That was supposed to be protection?

"Thank you for looping me in," I said. "I kind of got this job at the last minute, so I’m afraid I'm a bit… underinformed."

"No trouble at all," Lupin said easily. "If you need anything—truly—I'm happy to help."

I smiled, the warmth in his tone catching me off guard. "That's very kind of you. I'd love to return the favor anytime."

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, and his eyes crinkled faintly.

Silence fell between us—not uncomfortable exactly, but charged in that awkward way people get when they're suddenly aware of how close they're standing in a too-narrow corridor. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. So did he.

Finally, I asked, "You said you're new here as well?"

"I am," he said with a low chuckle. "Though I've heard it's something of a curse—Defense Against the Dark Arts professors never seem to last more than a year."

"I've heard that too," I said. "You planning to break the trend?"

"I intend to try," he said with a half-grin. "Wish me luck?"

"Oh, I'll be most disappointed if you don't," I replied, matching his tone. "I can already tell we're going to be fast friends."

The train gave a soft jolt beneath our feet, and I glanced toward the window just in time to see lanterns dotting the edge of a station platform.

"Looks like we've finally made it," I said.

Lupin gave a nod and stepped back. "Let's hurry. The platform will be packed in a moment."

"Lead the way," I said, motioning for him to walk ahead.

When the train finally screeched to a halt, the doors opened with a hiss and a rush of cold, misty air. I followed him down onto the dimly lit platform, the scent of damp earth and rain curling into my lungs. Around us, students spilled out from other doors—some chatting in quick bursts of excitement, others moving in dazed clusters, their voices muted by the fog.

Hogsmeade Station was small—just a weathered platform of old wooden planks, framed by iron lampposts glowing amber in the mist. Beyond the edges, distant hills and a treeline faded into shadow.

We made our way to the storage coach at the far end, where porters were already unloading luggage. Trunks and satchels drifted smoothly through the air under steady wandwork, disappearing into side passages where they'd be taken up to the castle. My bag—a dark green satin case—emerged at last from the fog, floating toward me with deliberate slowness. I reached out and flicked my wrist, guiding it the rest of the way without a wand, settling it neatly at my side.

"That's a neat trick," Lupin remarked, summoning his own worn brown satchel with an easy nonverbal charm. "Do you not use a wand at all?"

I shook my head. "No. This is all I do."

His brow lifted, thoughtful. "Fascinating. I'd like to see more sometime."

"Perhaps another night," I said with a faint smile. "I'm too tired to put on a show tonight."

"Firs' years! Firs' years, this way!"

The booming call came from near the water. I turned to see the silhouette of an enormous man holding a lantern high, his other hand gesturing for the smallest students to gather. They clustered around him, wide-eyed and shivering.

"That's Hagrid," Lupin offered before I could ask. "The groundskeeper. He takes the first-years across the lake."

The lantern light caught in Hagrid's shaggy beard as he waved the children over, his voice carrying easily over the mist.

"Only the first years?"

He nodded toward the far end of the station, where a row of black carriages waited in the mist. "The rest go up that way. We could take one as well."

"I'll follow your lead," I said. "You know this place better than I do."

As we approached, it became clear the carriages weren't pulled by ordinary horses at all. Each was harnessed to a tall, skeletal creature, its black hide stretched tight over jutting bones, leathery wings folded close against its sides. The sight made me slow without meaning to.

Lupin stepped up into one of the carriages, his luggage gliding obediently in behind him.

"What are those?" I asked as he turned back, offering me his hand.

His eyes flicked toward the creature hitched to our carriage. "Thestrals. You can see them?"

"Am I not supposed to?" My gaze shifted to the other students climbing into their own carriages, laughing and chattering as if nothing stood there at all. Not a single one even glanced at the creatures.

When I looked back, Lupin's expression had softened. He gave a small shake of his head and didn't press. I swallowed, sliding my hand into his so he could pull me up. My bag floated after me, settling neatly on the bench as I took my seat.

He settled into the seat across from me, and within moments the carriage jolted forward, creaking up the winding road toward the castle.

"You must have gone to Hogwarts yourself," I said, breaking the quiet before it could stretch too long. "You seem to know so much about it."

He gave a short laugh, as if it were obvious. “It was a while ago, but yes. I have some fond memories of this place.”

"It must be nice," I said. "To work somewhere you hold in such high regard."

His smile softened, but there was a flicker of something else behind it. "You have no idea," he murmured, gaze drifting past me to the mist-shrouded road ahead. "A few years ago, I… I didn't think it would be possible."

The quiet that followed carried more weight than before. I wasn't sure what to say to that, so I offered the only thing that felt right. "Well… I'm glad you're here now."

His eyes returned to mine, steady and sincere. "As am I."

For a time, neither of us spoke. The steady creak of the carriage and the muffled rhythm of unseen hooves filled the space between us, a slow, lulling cadence. Outside, the mist pressed in close, curling in pale ribbons that slipped past the windows and blurred the edges of the winding road.

Gradually, a shape began to emerge from the fog—a tall wrought-iron gate, its black bars twisted into curling patterns, flanked by weathered stone pillars. Beyond it, the faint silhouette of the castle rose against the night, its many windows glimmering like scattered embers in the dark.

The carriage slowed, wheels crunching over gravel, and came to a halt just outside the gates. That was when I saw him.

A lone figure stood inside the entrance, tall and still, the sweep of his dark robes unmoving in the damp air. Even from this distance, there was a weight to his gaze, sharp and assessing. He didn't shift his weight. Didn't speak. Just watched as our carriage rolled to a stop, his eyes fixed in our direction.

Beside me, Lupin's eyes flicked toward him, then back to me, his mouth tugging into the faintest suggestion of a smile. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news," he said dryly, "but it appears you've been sent an escort."

I followed his gaze. Even at a distance, I could feel the chill in the man's stare. Lupin was probably right—whoever he was, he didn't look thrilled to see me. I wondered briefly if Dumbledore had sent him—or if this was something else entirely.

Chapter Text

Lupin stepped down from the carriage first, his boots landing lightly on the damp gravel. He turned back without hesitation, one hand offered to me. His grip was warm and steady as I let him help me down.

Other students were spilling from their own carriages in chattering clusters, laughter and hurried footsteps drifting through the mist. They started off at a run toward the gates—but slowed the instant they noticed the lone figure waiting on the other side.

A voice cut across the night, low and cold.

“Taking your time, are we? You are aware that staff are expected to arrive before the students… I presume?”

We stepped through the gate, and the torchlight caught him fully for the first time.

Every inch of him seemed designed to absorb the light—the sweep of black robes, the ink-dark fall of shoulder-length greasy hair, the fathomless eyes fixed on us. His sallow skin looked muted against the dark, and the thin slash of his mouth was set in a permanent frown.

“Well, we’re here now,” Lupin replied, his tone civil but edged with quiet defiance. “And it’s very kind of you to come out to meet us—time constraints and all.”

“I’m here to escort Professor Winters to her quarters so she may deposit her luggage before the Sorting,” the man returned smoothly, his gaze flicking to me and back. “I trust you at least know your way around, Lupin. Or has your sense of direction suffered without your… keen sense of smell?”

I glanced between them. Lupin's shoulders went still for a fraction of a second—the comment had landed somewhere deeper than an idle insult.

“No need to trouble yourself, Snape,” Lupin said after a beat, his voice calm but firmer now. “I wouldn’t wish to keep you from… important duties.”

“Oh—you’re leaving us?” The words slipped out quicker than I meant.

Snape’s eyes slid to mine—slow, assessing, predatory—and I had the unpleasant sensation of a mouse suddenly aware of the hawk’s shadow overhead.

Lupin’s expression softened. He set a hand on my shoulder, light but steady. “I’ll see you at the Sorting. I need to drop my own things first,” he said, lifting the worn satchel at his side.

I managed a small smile, though the knot of discomfort remained. I didn’t know this Snape man, but the current between him and Lupin was clear—something long-standing, sharpened over years. Maybe once we were alone, I could try to get a read on him. “I’ll see you there, then.”

He nodded once, then gave Snape a final, unreadable glance before he strode toward the castle doors and disappeared into the haze.

I turned back to Snape. His expression hadn’t changed.

“I’m Heather Winters,” I said, offering him my hand.

Snape’s gaze dropped to it—just long enough for the pause to feel intentional—before he withdrew his wand, smooth and unhurried. Without a word, my bag lifted from my grasp and drifted ahead of us. He turned and started toward the castle, robes sweeping behind him.

I blinked, then hurried after him. “Hey—wait. I can handle that!”

“Obviously not,” he replied, not slowing in the slightest. His stride was long and measured. “Or you would have recognized we are short on time.”

“Excuse me?” I managed, falling into step beside him. We passed through the great oak doors into the Entrance Hall. “All I did was introduce myself.”

“Yes,” he said, voice silken and cold, “while standing perfectly still in the middle of the road.”

My jaw tightened. We’d barely met, and already he was speaking to me like I was some incompetent first-year. I bit back the urge to demand what his problem was—perhaps he was still bristling from whatever lay between him and Lupin.

“My apologies,” I said finally, matching his pace as we moved down a long corridor. Our steps rang against the flagstones, shadows stretching tall in the flicker of torchlight.

He said nothing. The silence between us grew heavier with each step.

I tried again, forcing a hint of warmth into my tone. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Professor Snape,” he said coldly, as if the title should have been obvious.

“Do you not have a first name?” I asked, attempting lightness.

“One you have not earned the privilege of using,” he replied without breaking stride.

I scoffed before I could think better of it. “And how does one go about earning such a privilege?” I asked, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

“One begins,” he said, his tone glacial, “by not requiring an escort to find one’s own quarters.”

Heat prickled along my palms. Every word out of his mouth dripped with disdain. It wasn’t about Lupin—this was just who he was. Cruel for cruelty’s sake.

The silence that followed was hostile, broken only by the echo of our footsteps as we turned a corner and began to climb a narrow wooden staircase. The steps creaked beneath us, each one echoing in the silence. At the top were two imposing, dark-wood doors. With a casual flick of his wand, my bag floated back into my hands.

“That one is yours,” he said, nodding toward the door on the left, already turning away.

The retort slipped out before I could catch it. “Has anyone ever told you how unbelievably rude you are?”

He stopped. Turned back slowly, deliberately. A low sound escaped him—something that might have been a laugh if there'd been any humor in it. “I'm certain many have thought it. You, however, appear to lack the wisdom to keep such observations to yourself.”

The words hit like a slap.

Every insult. Every sneer. Every moment of this damned walk compressed into a single point of white-hot fury in my chest. Professional. I was supposed to be professional. But standing there, watching that cold, satisfied gleam in his eyes, something inside me broke.

My hand shot up—not a decision, just reaction—finger pointed at his chest. “How dare you—”

Heat flared in my palm—sudden, searing. Fire sprang to life at my fingertip, a thin ribbon of flame. The essence sang through me, eager and wild, feeding on my anger. It would be so easy to let it grow. So easy to—

No.

My fist snapped shut. The flame died. I shook my hand once, hard, scattering sparks into the space between us. My breath came quick and shallow.

When I looked up from my still-trembling hand, something flickered in his expression—there and gone, but I'd seen it.

He was laughing at me.

My first day. My first conversation with this impossible man. And I'd nearly set him on fire. Perfect.

I stepped past him before he could speak again, throwing my door open with more force than necessary. One glance—bed, desk, table, rug, window. Basics. My bag landed at the foot of the bed, and I was back in the hall in seconds. The door shut sharply at my back.

“Let’s go. I don’t intend to be late.”

I started down the stairs without checking whether he followed, keeping my face turned away. At the bottom, I stepped aside, letting him take the lead.

We walked in silence—comfortable for him, necessary for me. One more word and I'd be out of a job.

When the great double doors of the Hall came into view, I lengthened my stride and passed him without so much as a glance. No nod of thanks. No polite farewell. Just the sound of my own steps carrying me toward the staff table at the far end of the room, the students' chatter swelling in the vaulted space like a tide.

The Great Hall stretched before me, vast and golden with candlelight. Four long tables lined with students, hundreds of floating candles overhead, the enchanted ceiling dark and star-flecked above. The noise was immense—voices layering over voices, the scrape of benches, bursts of laughter.

I forced myself to keep moving, gaze fixed on the staff table ahead.

At the far end of the Hall stood a tall witch with black hair streaked faintly with silver, her bearing as straight and sharp as the lines of her emerald-green robes. Fine lines at the corners of her eyes only seemed to sharpen the authority in her expression. The first-years clustered around her like ducklings, their polished shoes clicking against the stone floor as they shifted nervously. A draft swirled down from the enchanted ceiling, carrying the faint scent of candle wax as she arranged them in a neat line before the stool where the Sorting Hat waited.

As I drew near, her gaze flicked up—keen, assessing, and missing nothing. I managed a polite smile, careful not to interrupt her work—and even more careful not to let my anger show. The last thing I needed tonight was to start building a reputation for conflict.

Beyond her, at the staff table itself, my eyes skimmed over the seated faces—quick glances while trying not to stare. A small man, no taller than a goblin, gave me a warm nod from beneath a shock of white hair; I returned it without breaking stride. Next to him sat a man who could only be Hagrid—broad-shouldered, wild-bearded, and wearing a smile so wide it seemed nothing in the world could dim it.

At the center of the table sat Dumbledore, rising as I drew near. “Heather,” he greeted warmly, clasping my hand in both of his before gesturing toward the far side. “I believe Remus has saved you a spot.”

“Thank you,” I said, releasing his hand with a small smile. “Good to see you again.”

I rounded the table in the direction he'd indicated, slipping into the empty chair beside Lupin. On my other side sat a willowy witch with oversized spectacles who looked at me curiously. I managed a small smile in return before turning to Lupin. He glanced at me, amusement tugging at his mouth.

“Judging by your expression,” he murmured, “I take it Professor Snape was delightful company.”

“Don't get me started,” I muttered, annoyed that I'd failed to hide my feelings as well as I'd thought. “At this point, I’m tempted to be equally annoyed with you and Dumbledore for making me go through that.”

Lupin laughed warmly, though sympathy flickered in his eyes. “The first encounter is always the worst. Best to get it over with quickly, though—rather like ripping off a bandage.”

On the opposite side of the staff table, Snape took his seat beside Hagrid, his robes sweeping behind him like a shadow. His gaze cut immediately toward the Gryffindor table—sharp, unblinking.

I followed his gaze and found Harry Potter—seated between the red-haired Ron and Hermione with her wild curls. “Curious,” the word slipping out before I could stop it.

Before I could ask Lupin about it, the emerald-robed witch's voice cut cleanly through the low hum of the Hall.

“Step smartly now,” she said, her tone crisp as she guided the first-years into a neat line before the stool. The Sorting Hat waited there, its frayed brim curled in a patient, knowing smile. “When I call your name, you will step forward, place the Hat upon your head, and be Sorted into your House.”

The vaulted space seemed to hold its breath. A low rustle of robes, the faintest murmur from the four House tables—then silence. Only the soft flicker of candlelight remained. Her eyes swept the line, sharp and assessing, before she unrolled a long parchment.

“A Hat, huh?” I glanced at Lupin.

Lupin leaned slightly closer, his voice pitched low. “It reads the student's thoughts and determines which House suits them best.”

I watched the first student called—a young girl with bright blonde plaits—step hesitantly toward the stool. The old wooden stool gave a faint, protesting creak as the girl sat. The emerald-robed witch lowered the Hat onto the girl's head with practiced precision, the frayed brim twitching as if to taste the air before speaking.

“Ilvermorny sorts its students differently,” I said after a moment, my eyes still on the girl beneath the Hat. “No magic hat. Four statues—one for each House—come to life when you stand before them. Whichever reacts claims you. Mine was the Thunderbird.”

“The adventurous sort, then?” Lupin’s mouth quirked with quiet amusement.

“Reckless, maybe,” I admitted.

The girl's shoulders eased as the Hat shouted its verdict, the voice ringing through the Hall. The Gryffindor table erupted into applause, the pounding of hands on wood mingling with whoops and cheers. I joined in politely.

As the applause died down, my gaze drifted past the cheering students and found Harry Potter—already watching me. His eyes were startlingly green, even from this distance, and they held mine with an odd intensity. He didn't look away immediately, something unreadable crossing his face, until Hermione nudged him and he startled slightly, turning back to his friends.

The rest of the Sorting passed in much the same way—nervous steps to the stool, the Hat's verdict, and cheers as each House claimed their newest member. Snape's clapping stood out, sharp and deliberate, whenever a student joined Slytherin, the table's cheers swelling in response.

“I’m guessing he’s a fan?” I leaned slightly toward Lupin.

“You could say that.” Lupin’s mouth twitched. “He’s Head of Slytherin House.”

“Poor them.”

Lupin smirked. Snape’s gaze slid toward me across the table. I kept my eyes fixed on the next first-year, refusing to look back.

When the final student was Sorted and took their seat, Dumbledore rose from his chair. The Hall fell silent. He stepped forward to address them, candlelight catching in his silver beard, and smiled warmly at the assembled students.

“Welcome!” he said, his voice carrying easily through the vast chamber. “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast.”

A few nervous laughs rippled through the younger students. Beside me, Lupin straightened slightly, his expression growing more attentive.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. The lightness in his tone evaporated. “As you will all be aware after their search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing host to some of the dementors of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry of Magic business.”

The temperature in the Hall seemed to drop. My breath caught—just for a moment—as the memory surged unbidden. Frost crawling across the compartment window. That cloaked figure drifting past, shrouded and faceless. Gideon’s voice, ragged and broken, calling my name. My hands had trembled, my magic slipping away like water through cracked fingers as students screamed in the corridor beyond.

I felt the blood drain from my face.

Beside me, Lupin shifted slightly, his gaze flicking toward me. I swallowed hard, forcing the memory back down, and fixed my gaze on Dumbledore as he continued.

“They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds,” Dumbledore continued, his voice firm, “and while they are with us, I must make it plain that nobody is to leave school without permission. Dementors are not to be fooled by tricks or disguises—or even Invisibility Cloaks,” he added blandly. His eyes swept the hall, pausing briefly on the Gryffindor table. “It is not in the nature of a dementor to understand pleading or excuses. I therefore warn each and every one of you to give them no reason to harm you. I look to the prefects, and our new Head Boy and Girl, to make sure that no student runs afoul of the dementors.”

The silence that followed was absolute. No one moved. No one whispered. I watched the students—some pale, others wide-eyed, a few exchanging nervous glances with their housemates. Even the staff table stilled.

I drew in a slow breath, feeling the tightness in my chest begin to ease.

Then Dumbledore’s expression softened, and warmth returned to his voice. “On a happier note,” he continued. “I am pleased to welcome three new teachers to our ranks this year.”

The shift was almost palpable—shoulders relaxing, a few quiet exhales of relief.

“First, Professor Remus Lupin, who has kindly consented to fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

Scattered applause met the announcement—polite but restrained. I joined in, glancing at Lupin, who inclined his head with a faint, modest smile. A few students at the Gryffindor table clapped more enthusiastically—Harry Potter and his friends among them, I noticed.

Then my gaze drifted to Snape.

He wasn’t clapping. His hands rested on the table before him, perfectly still. But it was his eyes that caught me—fixed on Lupin with an intensity that went beyond mere professional rivalry. The look was cold, controlled, but underneath it I glimpsed something darker. Loathing, perhaps. Or something older and more personal that he’d learned to bury in public.

“Secondly,” Dumbledore continued as the lukewarm applause faded, “I am delighted to say that none other than Rubeus Hagrid has agreed to take on the role of Care of Magical Creatures teacher, in addition to his gamekeeping duties.”

The reaction was immediate and explosive. The Gryffindor table erupted into cheers, students pounding their fists on the table and whooping with delight. The cheers spread to Hufflepuff, and even a few Ravenclaws joined in. Hagrid’s face turned a deep, ruby red, and he ducked his head, grinning so widely his beard couldn’t hide it. His massive hands covered his face for a moment before he wiped at his eyes with the corner of the tablecloth.

I couldn’t help but smile. The affection in the room was unmistakable. Whatever doubts Hagrid might have about teaching, his students clearly had none.

“And finally,” Dumbledore said, raising a hand to quiet the lingering applause, “our newest addition—Professor Heather Winters, who will be teaching a newly introduced course: Manipulation of Magical Essence.”

The applause that followed was polite but confused—scattered claps mingling with immediate whispers. My name rippled through the Hall in low voices, carried on fragments like “What's that?” and “Never heard of it,” with a few older students near the Slytherin table murmuring, “Wandless magic?”

I kept my expression neutral, my hands folded in my lap, resisting the urge to fidget under the weight of so many eyes. Across the table, Snape’s clapping was brief and perfunctory, his gaze settling on me for the briefest moment—unreadable, assessing—before flicking back to the students.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled as he looked out over the Hall. “I trust,” he said mildly, “that you will extend to all three the respect and courtesy befitting their positions. Now—” His smile widened. “—I think that’s everything of importance. Let the feast begin!”

The golden plates and goblets in front of us filled in an instant. The long tables groaned under roasts, steaming platters of vegetables, and bowls piled high with bread still warm from the oven. The mingled scents—rosemary, garlic, and something sweet I couldn’t place—rose on a wave of heat, carrying over the rising swell of conversation.

I filled a modest plate, more out of politeness than hunger. After the day I’d had, not even the delicious smells could stir my appetite.

"Tragic," a dreamy voice murmured from my left.

I glanced at the witch beside me—the one with oversized spectacles. She was gazing at me now with an unfocused expression, her eyes magnified and slightly glazed behind the thick lenses.

"The shadows cling to you so," she said softly, tilting her head as though she could see something I couldn't.

I blinked, unsure how to respond to that.

"Professor Winters."

The crisp Scottish voice from my right was a lifeline. I turned to find the witch who'd led the Sorting leaning forward past Lupin, one hand extended toward me.

"Minerva McGonagall," she continued. "Deputy Headmistress and Transfiguration professor. Welcome to Hogwarts."

"Thank you, Professor," I managed, reaching across to shake her hand. Her grip was firm, her gaze sharp but not unkind.

She gave a small nod, then settled back into her seat and turned to Lupin. The two began chatting easily. The students' voices rolled around me in bursts of laughter and excited chatter, broken by the occasional clink of cutlery. Snape kept his eyes on his plate, though he occasionally glanced toward the Gryffindor table.

By the time the last crumbs were gone and the plates cleared themselves, Dumbledore was on his feet again, dismissing the students with a genial wave. The scrape of benches and shuffle of hundreds of feet filled the Hall as they filed toward the doors.

I rose with the rest of the staff, planning to find my way back to my quarters, when a voice spoke softly at my side.

"Heather."

I turned to find Dumbledore standing beside me, his blue eyes bright behind his half-moon spectacles.

"Before you attempt to navigate back on your own," he said kindly, "I thought I might offer assistance. Severus knows the castle well, and would be happy to show you the main corridors this evening—if you'd like. The staircases do move, you see, and it can be rather disorienting at first."

I hesitated. "Severus?"

"Professor Snape," Dumbledore clarified with a small smile, gesturing toward the dark-robed figure lingering a short distance away.

Severus. So that was the first name he hadn’t bothered to share with me. My stomach sank. Of course.

"I appreciate the offer," I managed, "but I think I'd prefer to explore on my own—if that's quite alright."

“Of course,” Dumbledore said with an indulgent nod. “Though you may find it helpful to know that Professor Snape’s quarters are just beside yours, should you need anything.”

That caught me off guard. I managed a polite smile. “Good to know,” I said, already making a mental note not to require anything from him at all.

Dumbledore inclined his head with a small smile, then moved toward Snape, murmuring something too low to hear. I shifted, ready to leave, but Snape’s eyes found mine, unreadable in the candlelight.

"Do you want me to walk you to your room?"

The voice at my side made me blink, tearing my gaze from Snape's. Lupin stood beside me, his expression warm.

"I appreciate it," I said, "but I think I can manage."

"Fair enough." Lupin fell into step beside me anyway as we headed toward the doors. "Though I'll walk with you as far as the main corridor, if you don't mind. I'm headed that way myself."

I didn't mind. After the weight of Snape's stare, Lupin's easy presence was a relief.

We walked in comfortable silence through the emptying Great Hall, past clusters of lingering students. The castle felt different now—less overwhelming, more like a place I might actually learn to navigate.

"Thank you," I said as we reached the base of the staircase to my quarters. "For stepping in back there."

Lupin's expression turned wry. "I thought you might prefer an alternative to Severus's company."

"You thought correctly."

He smiled and moved as if to continue down the corridor, then paused, turning back. "For what it's worth," he said, his tone gentler now, "the students seemed intrigued by your class. Wandless magic isn't something many of them will have encountered before. You might be surprised by how many show up."

The reassurance settled something in my chest I hadn't realized was tight. "I hope you're right."

"I usually am," he said with a slight smile. "Sleep well, Heather."

"Goodnight, Remus." I realized as I said it that the distance between us had narrowed. He was a friend now—maybe the only one I had here.

I watched him continue down the corridor until he disappeared around a corner, then turned and climbed the stairs—moving quickly, just in case Snape had similar ideas about retiring for the evening.

Chapter Text

The next morning, I didn't rush. This was my first official day as a Hogwarts professor, and I let myself drift through it slowly, exploring my new quarters in the soft wash of early light. The place was… very wooden. Wood floors, wood-paneled walls, wood bedframe, wood vanity. I was fairly certain a forest had died for this room alone. The only relief from all that brown came in deep green accents—the curtains, the bedspread, the rug underfoot, and a scattering of potted plants that looked like they'd been here longer than the furniture. It was serviceable, even a little cozy, but I made a mental note: first paycheck, I'd take a trip down to Hogsmeade and find something—anything—to make it feel more like mine.

On my vanity sat a small porcelain teacup that hadn't been there last night. When I touched the handle, it filled itself—steam curling up from the surface, carrying the unmistakable scent of English breakfast tea. I took a cautious sip and wrinkled my nose. Not terrible, but not what I'd have chosen. I drank it as I unpacked the last of my things—setting aside the dark brown work satchel I'd brought specifically for teaching—wondering if the kitchens would mind a professor popping in to request something a little closer to home.

The en suite bathroom felt more like a stone alcove than the rest of the room, but it kept the same green accents—bathmat, shower curtain, even a small plant perched cheerfully on the back of the toilet. I lingered in the shower, letting the warmth rinse away the damp chill of the Highlands and the exhaustion from yesterday's journey. When I stepped out, I gave my arms a practiced sweep; the water peeled away from my skin and hair in shimmering ribbons before spiraling neatly down the drain. One perk of my craft—I'd never needed a towel.

Judging by the light streaming in through the open windows, breakfast in the Great Hall had probably started. I lingered anyway, sifting through my robes until I found something that struck the right balance: professional enough for a classroom, but still warm and approachable.

I settled on forest-green teaching robes over a cream blouse, cinched with a narrow leather belt, and swapped the heavy standard-issue boots for low-heeled ones I could actually walk in all day. I pinned back a section of my hair—thick, dark red waves—with a silver leaf-shaped clasp, letting the rest frame my face. The whole effect felt polished without being unapproachable. More "welcome to class" than "you may now address the court."

I caught my reflection in the vanity mirror and had to laugh. Forest-green robes in my forest of a room. I'd blend right into the furniture.

My stomach began to complain—loudly—after barely touching dinner last night, but I was determined to skip breakfast. Not forever. Just… long enough to avoid running into the man in the room next to mine.

I needed to settle my nerves before I saw him again. Because as much as I hated to admit it, one more round of his sharp tongue might be all it took for my temper to get the better of me. And if I lost control the way I had in the past… well. That was not a mess I could afford to make here.

When I could stall no longer—and risked actually being late for my own first class—I grabbed my satchel and eased the door open just enough to peer out. From this angle, I could see Snape's door—closed, silent.

Good.

I'd have to step out to reach the stairs down, but if his door was closed, surely—

I pulled the door open and stepped out—straight into Severus Snape. He stood perfectly still, arms folded, as though he'd been waiting.

"Checking to see if the coast was clear?" he drawled. "How very... cautious of you."

I jerked back, pulse lurching. "You nearly gave me a heart attack—why are you right outside my door?"

He tilted his head, studying me with that flat, measuring stare. "I was on my way downstairs when you… emerged." The slight pause around "emerged" made it sound as if I'd clawed my way out of a drain.

"I thought you'd gone to breakfast," I said, fumbling for something reasonable. "I didn't want to disturb you if you were still here."

His brow lifted, sharp as a knife's edge. "So you believed I was both present and absent?"

Heat crept up my neck. "I wasn't sure which. I don't know your schedule yet."

The noise he made could have meant anything from disbelief to dismissal. Probably both.

"I need to get to class," I said quickly, pasting on a polite smile as I stepped to pass him. "Good morning, Professor."

"Do you require assistance finding it?" The offer was pitched so flatly it was impossible to tell if it was genuine or bait.

"No," I replied too quickly. "Dumbledore showed me the room when I was hired. I wouldn't want to inconvenience you."

"Professor Dumbledore," he said, each syllable precise, "has asked me to make myself available to you… in case you are incapable of navigating the castle on your own."

I bit back the urge to prove just how "capable" I could be—preferably by setting his sleeve on fire.

"Yes. He mentioned that last night," I said, keeping my tone neutral.

He inclined his head in a way that said the conversation was over. Without another word, he swept down the staircase ahead of me, his robes trailing like a living shadow.

I let him get a long lead before following—no way was I spending the morning staring at his back. When the echo of his footsteps finally faded, I squared my shoulders, turned down the opposite staircase, and told myself I could manage without being shepherded around like a lost first-year.

The castle was already awake. Students hurried past in all directions—some fresh from breakfast, others spilling out of staircases and side passages I hadn't noticed before. Voices ricocheted off the stone: chatter, laughter, the occasional shout of "Hold the door!" The air carried the faint smell of toast and parchment, and every so often a bell tolled somewhere above, sending the stragglers into a jog.

I let the current carry me forward. A pair of second-years slowed to whisper behind cupped hands, shooting me quick, curious glances. A staircase shifted into place just ahead, linking to a corridor I was fairly certain led toward my classroom.

It didn't.

Three turns and another moving staircase later, I was staring at the same enormous suit of armor I'd passed last night on the way to my quarters. Which meant I'd just walked a perfect circle.

Brilliant. First day, and I was already about to be late. All because I'd been too proud to accept help.

I muttered a sharp word under my breath and tried to ignore the ominous groan of the nearest staircase as it shuffled itself sideways. This was getting me nowhere. I was about to pick a direction at random when two girls rounded the corner ahead, mid-laugh, their conversation cutting off the moment they saw me.

One wore Ravenclaw blue and bronze, her brown hair twisted neatly off her face; the other had Slytherin green edging her sleeves, dark curls spilling over one shoulder. They slowed, giving me that particular look people wear when they already know who you are but haven't decided whether to say it out loud. I was fairly sure I'd seen them on the train—third-years, if I remembered right. Same year as my first class of the day.

"Uh—sorry," I said, hitching my satchel higher on my shoulder. "Would either of you happen to know where… Manipulation of Magical Essence is supposed to be?"

The Ravenclaw's face lit up instantly. "That's your class, isn't it? We were just heading there. I'm Mandy—Mandy Brocklehurst."

"Tracey Davis," the Slytherin added with a calm nod, her tone more guarded but not unfriendly.

Relief loosened my shoulders as I fell into step with them. "Thank Merlin. You might've just saved me from wandering into the dungeons and never being seen again."

"That's Snape's territory," Tracey said with a faint smirk. "Wouldn't recommend it."

"Noted," I replied, matching her tone and trying not to let my grimace at his name be too obvious.

Mandy glanced at me, curiosity plain. "Is it true we're going to be learning wandless magic? The notice board didn't explain much."

"That's the plan," I said. "Though we'll start with theory and the basics before anyone tries to set something on fire with their mind."

Tracey made a low, skeptical hum—not dismissive exactly, but as if she'd believe it when she saw it. "Sounds… different."

"Different's not bad," Mandy countered, shooting her friend a look. "Besides, imagine if we can actually do it."

Tracey's mouth tugged upward just enough to suggest she already was.

By the time we reached the right corridor—not far from where I'd first guessed it might be—I understood why they were friends. Different Houses, different edges, but they fit together in a way that worked.

"Thanks for the rescue," I told them as we stopped outside the classroom door. "I owe you one."

Mandy's grin widened. Tracey's smirk turned faintly conspiratorial. "We'll hold you to that," she said, and they slipped inside ahead of me, their seats already claimed side-by-side before I'd even crossed the threshold.

"Take your seats, everyone." I pitched my voice to carry, firm without shouting, and made my way to the front of the room. My desk sat just off-center, overlooking rows of paired tables. I set my satchel in the chair behind it and turned to face the class, waiting as the shuffle of feet and scraping of chairs settled into silence.

"Welcome to Manipulation of Magical Essence," I began, letting my gaze sweep the room. "Bit of a mouthful, so you'll hear me shorten it to Essencery."

"I am Professor Heather Winters," I continued, "and I've heard quite a few whispers about how this is a wandless magic class… and how that's not possible."

At the far end of the room, I stopped, the tall windows spilling pale morning light across the floor. Beyond them, the lawn rolled away toward the dark mirror of the Black Lake. I turned to face them, letting a faint smile tug at my mouth.

"Well," I said, "I'm here to tell you—it is possible."

I raised my hand, palm up, and pushed upward as though lifting something unseen. Around the room, every quill trembled, then rose from its inkwell, the faint scritch of their points leaving parchment carrying through the silence. A ripple of air brushed past my cheek as they floated higher, hovering in place.

A slow twist of my wrist set the quills spiraling together, their feathers whispering as they circled overhead like a flock of birds wheeling over prey. Several students craned their necks; one boy ducked instinctively as they swooped lower in their orbit. Laughter and gasps broke out in uneven waves.

Without blinking, I flicked my hand over and pressed down—each quill darting back to its inkwell with a neat click, a few rocking slightly before settling perfectly upright.

"And before anyone asks," I said over the hush that followed, pacing back toward the front, "yes, that was wandless. And no"—I let a small, knowing smile cross my face—"it wasn't difficult."

When I reached the front of the room, I leaned back against my desk, content to stay there for the rest of my introduction. It gave me a good vantage point to gauge their reactions—who was leaning forward with interest and who already looked like they'd decided this class was going to be a waste of time.

One boy in particular caught my eye: white-blond hair, Slytherin green robes, sitting beside a taller dark-haired boy from the same House. I remembered him from the train—one of the "too cool" types who didn't need the chocolate I'd offered. He wasn't slouched now. His posture had sharpened, his gaze just a shade more focused than it had been moments ago.

"Most students in Uagadou," I began, "can already cast basic spells without wands. By your age, many of them are learning to do so nonverbally. Here in Britain, you've been taught to rely on wands for everything—so we'll be starting from the ground up."

I folded my arms. "There's no book for this class. So—parchment and quills out, now. Take notes quickly. I am your only textbook, and anything you fail to write down will be your problem later."

Hermione Granger, who'd been taking notes already, immediately doubled her pace, her quill scratching furiously across the parchment. I scanned the rest of the room until every quill was poised. Only then did I continue.

"This term, we'll focus on wandless magical theory: how it compares to wand casting, breathing and focus techniques, and how to anchor yourself. Before the winter break, we'll move into basic casting—sensing magical presence, lighting and extinguishing candles, levitating small objects, and guiding their movement." I paused, letting that sink in. "After the break, we'll advance into practical applications: wandless shielding, adjusting temperature, and transferring magical energy to another person. Your final will be to demonstrate one basic wandless skill of your choice to the class."

A hand shot up—Ron Weasley, sitting beside Harry Potter. I nodded to him.

"I thought we were going to learn to throw fire or something," he said. "This all sounds… I dunno. Boring."

I arched a brow. "Everything I've just listed is something each of you will be able to do by the end of the year—if you attend, listen, and work. Some of you will catch on faster. Some will show a natural affinity. Those students will be invited back next year for more advanced training, which may"—I let the pause stretch—"or may not include throwing fire, depending on your capabilities."

That earned a few curious looks and one muffled laugh from the back.

My gaze swept the room one last time. "Any other questions?"

Silence.

A few students traded glances, waiting for someone else to speak. Hermione's quill hovered, poised for whatever came next. Across the aisle, Mandy leaned forward slightly—curious but cautious—while a Hufflepuff boy slouched lower in his chair, as if hoping I wouldn't call on him. The blond Slytherin kept his expression perfectly neutral, though his eyes hadn't left me since I'd mentioned "advanced training."

A slow smile curved my mouth. "Good."

I stepped behind my desk, picked up a piece of chalk, and tapped the tip once against the board. "Let's see how much you're really capable of, shall we?"

Chapter Text

The rest of the lesson unfolded without much drama—no one tried to set their desk on fire, no more quills took flight of their own accord, and no one stormed out muttering that I was a fraud. I counted it as a win.

With the chalk in hand, I had sketched out the bare bones of wandless theory on the board, the words coming almost by muscle memory:

Wand Casting –
• Uses a wand as a conduit to channel and shape magic externally.
• Relies on incantations and set gestures; precise and easier to master.
• Lower mental and physical strain—wand carries part of the workload.

Wandless Casting –
• Draws and shapes magic internally, directly from the caster.
• Relies on visualization, intent, and emotional control; harder to master.
• Higher mental and physical strain—stamina and focus essential.

And my final point—underlined for emphasis: Wands create dependence; casting wandlessly makes you harder to disarm and unlocks your natural magical affinity.

“A wand is a fine tool,” I said, stepping back and underlining the last sentence hard enough to make the chalk squeak, “but you are the true source of magic. A skilled witch or wizard should never rely on a single tool to define their capabilities.”

Some looked inspired. Others… skeptical. One boy in the back was clearly calculating how many minutes were left until he could bolt.

I gave them a moment to catch up, pacing the aisle as quills scratched against parchment. It gave me time to start matching names to faces. Hermione was easily going to be my model student—her notes were immaculate, and she answered every theory question with crisp precision. She earned my first five points to Gryffindor without hesitation.

Mandy was all wide-eyed curiosity, questions spilling out of her like she couldn’t help herself. Her friend Tracey didn’t ask a single thing, but I caught the way she leaned forward, absorbing every answer. Ron Weasley looked like I was personally torturing him by not letting him skip to practical demonstrations today. And that blond-haired boy, now known to me as Draco Malfoy…

He had that Slytherin stillness—body relaxed, mind sharp, eyes sharper. Pretending disinterest, but I could feel him tracking every word.

Harry was harder to read. So were half a dozen others. Some intrigued, some unconvinced. The sort of faces that said I’ll believe it when you prove it twice over.

Fine. I’d prove it.

In time.

The bell rang at half past ten, the sharp clang ricocheting off the stone walls. My first class was over, and the morning break had begun. I’d been perched on the edge of my desk for far too long, so I decided to spend the next fifteen minutes stretching my legs. The notes on wandless theory stayed up on the board for the next lot.

I wandered the hallways, tracing the route I thought I remembered from my first tour with Albus—the day he’d pointed out the entrance to the kitchens as casually as if he were showing me where to find the lavatory.

Sure enough, at the far end of a quiet corridor, the fruit bowl painting waited. A massive silver dish, piled high with gleaming apples, grapes, and a couple of lumpy-looking quinces. My gaze found the plump green pear tucked toward the bottom.

I reached out and brushed it with my fingertips.

It giggled.

Despite having heard it on my earlier trip, the sound still startled me. The pear squirmed, twisting on its stem until the green blurred into brass. I caught the knob and pulled.

The portrait swung open like an oversized cupboard door, and a wave of warmth rolled out, buttery and sweet. My empty stomach growled like an offended cat. Inside, copper pots clanged overhead while the air carried the smell of fresh bread and something rich with pumpkin.

A half-dozen small figures bustled between stoves and tables, trays in hand, spoons stirring steaming cauldrons. Two of them broke away, wiping their hands on simple tea-towel uniforms as they padded over on bare feet.

“Good morning, miss,” said one—a female with ears like crumpled parchment—her bow polite, her voice eager.

I smiled without thinking. House-elves weren’t a novelty to me; I’d grown up seeing them in American households and shops, and I’d been around the British ones for the last fifteen years. But no matter how long I’d lived here, it still gnawed at me that they didn’t enjoy the same freedoms.

Back home, they wore clothes they’d bought themselves—waistcoats, scarves, sometimes a ridiculous hat if the mood struck them—paid for with wages they’d earned. Here, their “uniform” was little more than a tea towel with the Hogwarts crest stitched in like a brand. None of them looked unhappy… but the lack of choice felt wrong all the same.

“Good morning,” I replied. “I was hoping I might ask a favor.”

“Anything at all, miss,” she said at once.

“I’ve got a teacup in my room that fills itself with breakfast tea every morning. I’m not really a fan. Any chance I could have coffee instead? Or maybe something herbal?”

“Oh, of course, miss. Would you like some now?” She was already half turning toward a kettle, her companion darting off as though to fetch it that instant.

I laughed and waved my hands. “No, no—just for tomorrow. I don’t want to trouble you.”

The smell in the room hit me again, rich and warm, and my stomach growled loud enough for her to hear.

“We just made some pumpkin bread!” she offered brightly. Another elf appeared with a knife, slicing off a generous piece, wrapping it in paper, and passing it over.

“Try some, please.”

I took it with a grateful smile, sliding it into my pocket. “Thank you. You’re all very kind.”

They beamed, and I slipped back out into the corridor, letting the portrait swing shut behind me. The second I was alone, the bread came out of my pocket, and I took a bite on my way to my next class. Warm, sweet, and just enough to hold me over—at least until lunch.

Warm pumpkin and spice still lingered on my tongue when I stepped back into my classroom—just in time to be met with the barely contained chaos of eleven-year-olds. Whatever calm the kitchens had given me vanished as quickly as it had come.

The room practically vibrated with their energy, and within five minutes I learned one of my first big weaknesses as a brand-new teacher—I had absolutely no idea how to calm them down without feeling like I was trying to bottle lightning. Visualization and emotional control might be the foundation of wandless casting, but expecting it from first-years felt about as realistic as asking them to levitate the Great Hall.

The questions came at me in a constant stream, many of them completely impractical. Can you teach us to fly without brooms? If we get good at this, do we even need Charms class? One boy earnestly asked if wandless magic could be used to make his little sister’s hair turn green forever.

Callum Fenwick—a lanky, freckled Gryffindor with a chronic case of speak first, think later —decided to impress the class by mimicking my floating quill demonstration. In theory, harmless. In practice… it somehow became an airborne inkwell that spun like a rogue Bludger before bursting over Imogen Vance’s desk.

The Ravenclaw—tall enough to pass for a second-year and already infamous for her relentless “why?” questions—rose slowly, parchment dripping, and turned on Callum with the kind of measured fury that only comes from a well-aimed ink blot. She weaponized that one word again, the “why” now less about curiosity and more about imminent vengeance.

Ewan Diggory, a cheerful Hufflepuff with more enthusiasm than fine control, jumped in to help. His heart was in the right place; his magic, less so. By the time he’d finished, Imogen’s notes looked like they’d been used as evidence in a very messy crime scene.

I salvaged what I could with a mix of patience and dry humor—my last line of defense when magic wasn’t enough—but by the time the bell rang, I was drained.

As the door shut behind the last of them, I leaned back against my desk and let out a slow breath. My third-years had been curious and skeptical, the kind of challenge I could spar with and enjoy. First-years were… another species entirely. I’d have to learn how to harness that energy or risk being eaten alive by it.

And speaking of being eaten alive—my stomach gave an unhelpful growl, reminding me the pumpkin bread was finally wearing off. I grabbed my notes for the afternoon, shut the door behind me, and set my course for the Great Hall.

Lunch couldn’t come soon enough.

I fell into step behind my first-years as the tide of students funneled toward the Great Hall. My mind drifted, letting my feet set a steady rhythm against the flagstones. I’d barely rounded the corner toward the grand doors when a warm, mild voice broke through my thoughts.

“You look as though you’ve been somewhere far away,” Lupin observed, falling into stride beside me.

I glanced at him, catching the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes as if he were trying to read my mood. “Just reliving my incredibly eventful morning,” I said dryly.

His brows lifted in polite interest. “Mm. And what sort of events have we had?” His tone was mild, but there was a thread of amusement running through it, like he already suspected the answer would be worth hearing.

I huffed a quiet laugh as we stepped through the doors, the midday light spilling across the enchanted ceiling overhead. The hall was alive with clinking cutlery and the scents of roast meat, fresh bread, and something spiced and sweet—comforting, and entirely at odds with the tension lingering in my shoulders. My stomach growled loud enough to make me grateful for the general din; I hadn’t realized just how little the slice of pumpkin bread had done to take the edge off.

“Oh, you know… the usual. Bickering first-years and my charming new next-door neighbor,” I said, my gaze drifting up toward the staff table. Snape’s chair was still empty. Good. One less thing to navigate while talking about him.

Lupin’s mouth curved in the faintest knowing smile. “That would explain it. Don’t let either trouble you. Severus… has a tendency to be guarded when he’s unsure of someone. Once he’s decided where you stand, he’s far less bristly.”

“You’re optimistic,” I murmured as we skirted the Gryffindor table and slipped into a pair of empty seats. Personally, I doubted Snape’s bristles had an “off” position, but the way Lupin spoke made me wonder—just for a moment—what it would actually take to make him lower his guard.

“An occupational hazard,” he said with a ghost of a grin, reaching for a serving spoon.

I began filling my plate, suddenly conscious that if I kept talking about my own grievances, I’d sound like a chronic complainer. “Enough about my trials. How was your morning?”

He set his fork down for a moment, considering. “I thought I’d start my third-years off with something memorable. A boggart lesson—good for teaching the Riddikulus charm.”

“That does sound entertaining,” I said, recalling the basic premise: boggarts shapeshifting into a person’s worst fear, then being undone by humor and willpower. An odd spell for most everyday magic, but invaluable if you happened across one in the wild.

“It was,” he agreed, “until I called Harry Potter forward.” He paused, clearly weighing his words. “You remember him? From the train?”

“Yes—he was in my first class this morning.”

“They come straight from you to me,” Lupin said, almost absently. “Well… it seems the Dementor incident on the train struck him harder than the others. When the boggart turned to face him, it became a Dementor.”

I winced. “Is he all right?”

“He is. I was there,” he said simply, a small reassuring smile playing at his lips.

I gave a soft laugh. “Of course.”

For a few moments, the sounds of lunch filled the space between us. I poked at a piece of bread on my plate. “I can’t blame him,” I admitted quietly. “If I ever meet a boggart, I might see one myself.”

He looked at me sidelong, chewing thoughtfully. “It affected you badly?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “I heard Gideon’s voice. Calling for me. And I… froze.”

His gaze softened. “Freezing is normal, the first time. But it’s not something to leave unresolved.”

That caught my attention. “What would you suggest?”

“Come to my office after classes tomorrow,” he said gently. “We’ll see what can be done.”

“‘See what can be done?’” I echoed, amused despite myself.

“Well, ideally, you’d learn to cast a Patronus. Without a wand, that might require… improvisation. We can start with a boggart. Work from there.”

I grimaced. “You think it’ll take a Dementor’s shape?”

“It’s possible. We won’t know until we try.”

I sighed. “Not exactly my idea of a good time… but you’re right. Better to face it than pretend it won’t happen again. Tomorrow, then?”

He inclined his head. “Tomorrow.”

The bell rang, cutting across the hum of the hall. We rose together, Lupin heading for the door with his usual unhurried stride.

As I gathered my bag, I found myself thinking—not for the first time—that I was lucky that at least some of my colleagues seemed invested in keeping me alive.

Chapter Text

I only had one more class on Mondays—a group of fifth-years I was hoping would help ease the gnawing little voice suggesting I couldn’t teach and should pack my bags before dinner. My earlier confidence from the morning’s third-years had thinned, but I still moved through my opening remarks and into the quill demonstration.

The reaction was just what I wanted—wide-eyed interest, no one attempting to mimic me mid-lesson this time. A couple of Hufflepuffs even clapped.

“Brilliant,” said a tall, dark-haired boy with grey eyes and an easy, genuine smile as he lowered his hands. His fellow Hufflepuffs—a dark-blond boy and a freckled girl with ginger hair pulled back in a braid—nodded along. I got the immediate sense he was their anchor, the sort who didn’t need to speak loudly to be listened to. “Heard you’ve got to see it to believe it. Looking forward to trying it for ourselves.”

“Thank you, Mr…?” I prompted, curious who’d been talking about my class already. Then again, I’d already learned just how fast gossip travelled in this castle.

“Diggory,” he said, smiling. “Cedric Diggory.”

“Diggory,” I repeated. “I had a Diggory in my first-years this morning.”

“My cousin,” he said easily.

“He’s a good kid,” I said, returning the smile. “I’ll be expecting good things from both of you.”

His grin widened, and the ginger girl beside him flashed him a look far too exaggerated to be just friendly.

From the back came a low, derisive scoff. I glanced over to find a broad-shouldered Slytherin with dark hair and the air of someone who’d just heard the most laughable statement of the term.

“Don’t be rude, Cassius,” the blond Hufflepuff behind Cedric chided.

“I’m not,” Cassius drawled, sitting a little straighter. “I just think it’s better to let ability speak for itself.”

The challenge in his tone was unmistakable.

“I agree,” I said lightly, matching his stare. “I expect great things from every one of you. Whether or not that happens depends entirely on how much work you put in here. Take it seriously, and you might even impress your Head of House.”

I let my gaze rest on him for a beat.

“I hear that’s harder than brewing a potion with your eyes shut.”

A ripple of muffled laughter went through the Hufflepuff side. Cassius looked faintly taken aback that I’d returned fire, then leaned back with a slow, wry grin. I couldn’t tell if it was the grin of someone who’d gained respect… or ammunition.

“Quills. Parchment. Out now,” I said, turning for the chalkboard and the notes I’d written out earlier. As the class rustled into motion behind me, I found myself hoping it was the former.

The lesson passed as smoothly as my third-years had that morning. By the time the bell rang for the afternoon break, the scrape of chairs and low chatter filled the room. Cedric offered me a polite nod as he left, and I returned it with a small smile.

Cassius lingered, taking his time stacking his books in a way that was just deliberate enough to make a point. When he finally moved toward the door, he caught my eye and gave me a courteous smile that stopped well short of reaching his eyes.

I’d seen that look before—the kind worn by duelists who preferred to strike from ten paces rather than meet you in the ring.

“Professor,” he said with a shallow incline of his head before slipping into the corridor.

It didn’t take much imagination to guess where he was headed. Still, I told myself I might be wrong. Perhaps I wasn’t quite so committed to digging my own grave.

My last period was a free one, and I used it to spread out my notes and start mapping the next week’s lessons. I’d skipped homework for now, but I’d have to assign something next time. The quill demonstration had gone over well with every class, but if I didn’t move into more practical exercises, “essencery” would start sounding like a novelty act. And my first-years—I needed a way to keep them engaged without descending into chaos. Breathing exercises, perhaps. Something to focus them without feeling like busy work.

A sharp knock broke my train of thought.

“Yes? Come in,” I called, leaning over my desk to see who it was.

The door swung open to reveal the shadow I’d felt dogging me since I set foot in this castle.

“Professor Winters,” Snape said, his voice flat as stone.

“Professor Snape?” My reply came out more puzzled than I intended. Cassius. Of course. The only question was what version of events he’d delivered. I straightened in my chair. “How can I help you?”

“It’s been brought to my attention you’ve taken it upon yourself to speak for my approval.” He crossed the threshold without invitation, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.

I set my quill aside and stood, meeting him from the other side of my desk. “Merely an observation, Professor. Not a promise by any stretch of the imagination.”

“Indeed.” His gaze slid over the empty desks, then back to me. A pause lingered a heartbeat too long, as though he were weighing something unsaid. “Forgive me if I doubt your… demonstrations merit such lofty expectations. Applause is easily won by parlor tricks. It rarely signifies worth.”

That did it. My patience thinned to a thread. What did he actually know about what I taught? “It sounds as though you have experience with my particular brand of ‘parlor tricks.’ Unless, of course, you’re telling me Professor Severus Snape relies on idle gossip rather than first-hand information.”

The faintest twitch pulled at his mouth before smoothing away. His reply, when it came, was soft as silk and twice as sharp. “I remember quite clearly. If you’ve already forgotten your temper flaring at me last night, I assure you I have not.”

My hand curled into a fist before I even realized it, a muscle-deep attempt to keep it from happening again. “Nonsense,” I said, forcing my tone level. “That display wasn’t even a fraction of my craft. If you honestly think I was hired to dance fire across my fingertips, then you must have remarkably little faith in our Headmaster’s judgment.”

His eyes narrowed, just slightly—the flicker of derision darkening into something colder. The next words were delivered with clipped precision, every syllable too exact.

“And levitating quills, of course. A most… formidable arsenal.”

I exhaled through my nose, shrugging my outer robe from my shoulders and tossing it over my chair before rolling up my sleeves. “Alright. That’s it. You’re getting a lesson. Now.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Do you make a habit of issuing lessons as punishment, or am I simply fortunate?”

“Stand there,” I said, ignoring him and nodding toward the nearest clear space between desks.

He didn’t move at once, only fixed me with that steady, dissecting stare that managed to convey both disdain and reluctant curiosity. At length, he stepped forward, folding his arms as if to make it clear he was indulging me under protest—though I caught the faintest shift of his shoulders, as if bracing himself.

Before he could speak again, I crossed the space between us and set my palm flat against the center of his chest, just above the sternum.

He went rigid. “If this is some ill-conceived—”

“Shut up and trust the process for one minute,” I cut in, fingers splaying slightly to feel the faint thrum of his heartbeat beneath the wool. “What sets you apart from an ordinary Muggle man is an additional system, invisible to the human eye. It moves what I call essence through your body—as your cardiovascular system moves blood, or your endocrine system moves hormones.

“When you use a wand,” I went on, nodding toward the one at his side, “it forces that essence into your wand arm, letting you manipulate it through that focus. My branch of magic is about feeling that flow inside yourself, so you can direct it from anywhere. Here—” my fingers pressed lightly against him “—is where it naturally collects. Like a heart. And the first step to essencery is learning to feel it in your own body.”

His mouth curved again, a shadow of a smirk. “And if I feel nothing, am I to be considered… unfit for your brand of magic?”

“Try it and find out.” Drawing my own essence into my palm, I let it pool into a warm, bright knot beneath my skin. “I’m concentrating mine here to make it easier to recognize.”

Truthfully, I wasn’t expecting much. If he felt even the faintest flicker of warmth, I could call it a win and retreat with some dignity intact. Standing there with my hand against his chest, I was suddenly aware of how ridiculous I might look if nothing happened. Merlin help me, the last thing I wanted was for him to smirk and walk away certain I’d wasted his time.

He was silent, but the air between us shifted. Then—like the snap of a line catching—a thread of his essence reached outward from his chest, sharp and sure, hooking into the knot in my palm.

The jolt of it nearly made me step back. It wasn’t tentative; it was decisive, confident, far stronger than I’d braced for. My breath caught, and for a moment I stood frozen, unsure whether to hold my ground or break the connection.

Instinct won. I shoved back, meaning only to break the hook—my magic surging outward to dislodge it. The thread snapped, his essence recoiling into him, but some of it slipped past my push, sliding up my arm and sinking deep. At the same instant, the magic I’d tried to force away was drawn into him, vanishing beneath my palm like water pulled under sand.

His shoulders had gone taut, but not with anger. His gaze flicked away—quick, sharp, as if steadying himself—before snapping back to mine.

We both froze.

I eased my hand back, my pulse still quick. “Well?” I asked lightly—too lightly. “Did you feel anything?” On one level, I wasn’t sure if he could have felt what I just had. On another, I needed to know exactly what he did feel, so I could figure out what in Merlin’s name had just happened.

His eyes stayed locked on mine, dark and measuring. “Like touching a lightning ward. Unpleasant.” A pause, deliberate. “I assume this is your usual method?”

I had absolutely no idea. My heart was still thudding from the pull, my palm tingling with the ghost of it. But admitting that to him? Not today.

“Yes,” I said evenly, letting my hand fall to my side. “It’s normal.”

His mouth curved into a humorless half-smile. “If that is truly representative of your teaching… perhaps you’re not entirely without merit.”

Without another word, he swept from the classroom—but the line of his shoulders was still held a touch too stiff, his stride a touch too clipped—the kind of details most people would miss if they weren’t looking for them.

The door clicked shut behind him, and for a long moment I just stood there, hand still warm, a faint hum running beneath my ribs like the echo of a struck chord. It wasn’t fading—not entirely. I could still feel threads of his essence tangled with mine, subtle but distinct, like the taste of something lingering on the tongue long after the meal is gone.

When I focused on it, the hum deepened—as though I were leaning into a current that wasn’t mine. It was darker than my own, steadier, threaded through with a quiet intensity I couldn’t quite name. Not cold… but shadowed. I pulled back before I could decide whether it unsettled me or drew me in.

I flexed my fingers, wondering if he felt it too. And if he did… what would he make of it?

My masters had taught me that connections could form during training—usually fleeting, fading in hours. This felt… different. Sharper. Deeper. I could owl one of them in America, ask if they’d ever seen anything like it. But the thought of sending a letter across the ocean—waiting days for an answer while some poor bird made the trip—felt absurd. And truthfully… I wasn’t sure I was ready to explain this to anyone yet.

I forced myself back to my desk, scribbling lesson adjustments with the vague hope that work would distract me. It didn’t.

Dinner passed in a blur. I nodded through conversations I barely heard, the clatter of cutlery and bursts of laughter dull against the persistent pull in my chest. Even Lupin tried to distract me from my thoughts, but I only lied and told him I was tired. When I finally retreated to my rooms, the quiet did nothing to settle it.

Lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling, the weight of the castle pressing in around me. Every time I thought I’d pushed the feeling aside, it swelled again—his magic, his presence, refusing to let go.

Sleep came easily enough.

Peace did not.

Chapter Text

I was sitting somewhere warm.

The scrape of cutlery, the low hum of voices, the occasional bark of laughter—the Great Hall. Only the ceiling overhead wasn’t its usual bewitching sweep of sky. It was a flat, dreary grey, like a storm was thinking about rolling in but hadn’t committed yet. Steam curled lazily from a platter of eggs I had no real intention of eating.

My gaze drifted down the staff table. Halfway along sat Gilderoy Lockhart—perfect teeth flashing, golden hair catching the light. His hands carved through the air as though he were delivering the climax of some thrilling tale.

Lockhart? I knew the name—anyone who’d ever set foot in a magical bookshop in the last decade did—but what in Merlin’s name was he doing up here with the staff? A strange irritation tugged low in my chest, sharp and steady, as though I’d been forced to endure him far too many times already.

Across the hall, a ripple of commotion stirred the Gryffindor table. Before I even thought to look for him, my eyes found Harry Potter. He glanced up, our eyes met—and something in me tightened, then eased with an odd flicker of satisfaction when he looked away. Such a small, fleeting thing… yet it settled in my chest like a quiet victory.

The scene shifted without warning.

I was in a smaller, dimmer room. The faint scent of parchment and ash hung in the air. A stack of essays lay before me, neat and expectant. My hand dipped a quill into ink, the movement practiced, deliberate. Red scored across the top page—a blunt critique I would never usually write, yet here I felt no hesitation.

Another essay. Another clipped comment in the same tidy, slanted hand. A faint ache pulsed between my eyes—not from strain, but from a steady, low-grade impatience thrumming just beneath the surface.

I turned to the next parchment, but the ink began to run, blurring the words. The edges of the desk bled into shadow, the quill dissolving between my fingers. The room vanished with it.

I woke in my own bed, staring up at the solid ceiling of my quarters. My heart was beating just a little too fast, as if I’d been holding my breath.

It had felt real. Too real.

It took a moment for my mind to catch up: just a dream. A strange one, yes—but still only a dream.

Must’ve been a stress dream, I told myself, stretching in the pale morning light. I’d gone to bed unsettled, and my subconscious had apparently decided to have a field day with it. Speaking of which…

I closed my eyes, drawing my awareness inward, searching for the foreign essence I’d tangled with the day before.

…Nothing?

Frowning, I settled cross-legged and straightened my spine, breathing deep until my thoughts emptied out. I mapped the familiar currents through my body—the warm weight in my chest, the steadiness in my core, the subtle lines running down my arms to my fingertips, down my legs to my toes. Even the faint hum around my temples and the crown of my head.

No changes. No trace of him.

Relief loosened my shoulders, and I flopped back into the pillows.

Of course there was nothing. Essence was just essence. Whatever had felt different yesterday had clearly worked itself out, like a wound clotting before it heals. I blinked up at the ceiling, a smile tugging at my lips.

Best part? He never has to know. I am a cool, competent teacher, and Severus Snape will never see me sweat. Bite me, you bitter old man.

Though really, he was hardly older than me. Bitter contemporary, then.

…And maybe I’ll avoid giving him any more private lessons for a while. I remembered Lupin’s advice: Once he’s decided where you stand, he’s far less bristly.

Well, he’d better have decided by now.

I hopped out of bed and started getting ready. No shower today—I’m an every-other-day kind of woman unless I’d been rolling in dirt or sweating like a cursebreaker in July. Gideon had come home like that plenty of times in midsummer, shirt plastered to him after long days in the field.

I felt myself pause as the image rose, clear as if I’d just seen him—smiling, sweat-soaked, alive. My throat tightened. I shook the thought away and reached for the drawer of clothes. I couldn’t afford to start the day choked up.

I went with a soft forest-green jumper over a crisp white collared shirt, black trousers, and low boots sturdy enough for the walk to the castle. Hair up in a loose twist—a few rebellious strands escaping like they had a personal vendetta.

Before heading out, I tested the teacup. At my touch, it filled with what looked like a perfect cappuccino, complete with a leaf pattern in the foam. One sip and I nearly saw my life flash before my eyes—in the best possible way. I downed the rest like it was liquid gold.

Merlin, this was already the best morning I’d had all week.

Bag in hand, I reached for the door—then froze. A ridiculous, sneaky little idea popped into my head. I tiptoed to the wall I shared with Snape’s quarters, pressing my ear to it like a gossiping neighbor in a bad wizarding drama. If he left at the same time as yesterday, this early start might mean I’d avoid him entirely. Unless the wall was magically muffled… which, knowing him, it probably was. Still, worth a shot.

Silence. Either the wall was spelled, he wasn’t home, or he was lurking in complete stillness out of sheer spite.

I sighed. Enough skulking. If I ran into him, I ran into him. Avoidance wasn’t going to make him any less of a neighbor.

The corridor was empty. I smiled, feeling absurdly victorious, and headed downstairs to breakfast.

I didn’t linger at breakfast. I walked in, leaned toward the Gryffindor table, and asked if they could pass me a muffin to hold me over. A few laughed, but they handed one over without hesitation. I thanked them, tucked it into my hand, and made a brisk exit.

The classroom was blissfully empty when I arrived. I took an oversized bite of the muffin, savoring the soft crumb and faint hint of cinnamon, and glanced at the chalkboard. Yesterday’s notes were still clear, the neat white script ready for today’s groups.

I set my bag on the desk and settled into my chair, nibbling at the muffin while I flipped through the notes I’d drafted the night before. Future lesson plans, half-formed ideas, little reminders—anything to keep my hands busy while the room stayed quiet. From the corridor came the faint murmur of voices, growing louder as my second-years began to trickle in.

The first two through the door—a Ravenclaw boy and a Hufflepuff girl—took seats near the back. They dropped their bags onto the floor and immediately leaned toward each other in low conversation.

“…I’m telling you, he’s at St. Mungo’s. My aunt saw him there,” the boy whispered.

The girl snorted. “Serves him right after what happened last year.”

“I heard he tried to fix someone’s bones and vanished all of them instead—”

“No, that was just the arm. Lockhart. Total fraud.”

I froze at the sound of the name.

Lockhart. Again.

The name rattled in my head, dredging up last night’s dream—that blinding smile, the way his hair had seemed to catch the candlelight like the Hall itself was conspiring to flatter him.

I straightened in my chair before I could stop myself. “Why are you two talking about him ?” My tone was lighter than my posture, but there was no hiding the fact I’d been listening in. Subtlety had never been my strongest suit.

Both students startled. The Hufflepuff girl froze like a Niffler caught mid-pocket-pick. “Oh—good morning, Professor.” She flicked a glance at her friend, silently nominating him to explain.

“Lockhart was this author—” he began, hesitant.

“Yes, yes, I know who he is.” My words came out sharper than I intended, so I softened them with a smile, tilting my head just so. “I only meant—why the sudden interest in him? Are you fans?”

The boy snorted. “Hardly. He made a joke out of Defense Against the Dark Arts last year.”

I froze, the remains of the muffin slipping from my fingers before I caught it clumsily against my palm. “He was the professor?” My voice felt careful, too measured, as if speaking the words aloud might make them less absurd. That gleaming smile in the Great Hall wasn’t feeling so random anymore.

The girl nodded earnestly. “Everyone thought he’d be brilliant. All those books, all those adventures. But it turns out he was… well. A fraud.”

I forced a smile, thin but steady. “Well, I hope Professor Lupin is proving to be a much more capable teacher than him.”

Both students brightened at once. “Oh, he is,” the boy said eagerly. The girl nodded. “So much better.”

“Good.” My voice was careful, measured. “Thank you—and sorry for interrupting.”

I popped the rest of the muffin into my mouth, chewing slowly as the classroom filled around me. Outwardly composed. Inwardly, a tangle of thoughts knotted tighter and tighter, all circling the same question: why in Merlin’s name had I dreamed of him at the staff table?

I went through the motions with the second-years, though I knew I wasn’t giving them the attention they deserved. Quill demonstration, notes, a few questions tossed out more by habit than energy. My mind kept tugging elsewhere. At one point a boy raised his hand and asked if I was going to finish the diagram. I blinked, realizing I’d left half of it missing on the board. Heat crept up my neck as I scrambled to finish it, waving them on with more briskness than necessary.

I recognized some of their faces. Ginny Weasley—the girl from the train—sat quietly among her classmates, her gaze flicking toward me now and then. There was a shyness in it, yes, but also something heavier, watchful in a way that didn’t belong on someone her age. It left me with the faint sense of being weighed, though I couldn’t imagine why.

Behind her, Colin Creevey looked ready to burst out of his own skin, eyes wide and quill scratching in frantic bursts across the parchment—half notes, half doodles of the levitating quills. Every so often his hand strayed to the strap of the camera hanging around his neck, as though fighting the urge to raise it. He leaned so far forward I half-expected him to topple out of his chair.

When the bell rang and bags started thumping shut, Colin lingered. “Professor, could you float my quill one more time? I’d like to take a picture. For… documentation.”

His earnestness made me laugh softly. I obliged, letting his quill fly its lazy circles again before he snapped his photo. He grinned in thanks and bolted out after the others, already fumbling with his camera.

The room emptied, and quiet settled around me like a cloak. I gathered my own bag, shouldered it, and slipped out.

My steps turned instinctively toward where Dumbledore had pointed out the library to me, though my mind was miles behind, circling the same thought.

Lockhart.

I’d dreamed of him at the staff table as if I’d been here last year myself, living it alongside the rest of them. And now, hearing the students whisper about St. Mungo’s, about fraud and failure—it couldn’t be coincidence. Could it?

The thought sat heavy in my chest. Such a small, ridiculous thing, and yet it unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.

By the time the looming doors of the library came into view, my mind was made up. I needed to follow this thread, needed to know what had really happened to Gilderoy Lockhart.

The doors opened with a soft groan, and I stepped inside for the first time. The sheer weight of the place hit me at once. The air carried parchment and candlewax, with a sharper undertone of dust and ink—the scent of secrets pressed flat and bound tight. Rows of shelves stretched into the distance, each crammed with volumes that looked older than the country I’d been born in.

Clusters of students bent over the long tables, quills scratching busily. Some whispered far too loudly until a razor-sharp shhh cracked through the hush. The sound cut the room like a whip, and every head ducked lower.

My gaze followed its source to the front desk.

The woman seated there was thin and hawkish, her hair scraped back so tightly it looked like it might creak if she turned her head. Her eyes—dark, unblinking—swept the room like a predator circling for prey. When they landed on me, I had the distinct impression I’d already been weighed, measured, and quietly found wanting.

Of course. The librarian.

I made myself cross the floor, aiming for professional. “Good morning. I’m Heather Winters—the new professor.”

Her gaze flicked over me, quick and appraising, before she bent back to her parchment. “Yes. I know.”

So much for warm welcomes.

A polished brass nameplate on the desk caught my eye: Madam Irma Pince — Librarian. At least if she wouldn’t introduce herself, the furniture would do it for her.

“I was hoping you might help me with… research,” I tried again.

Her quill stilled. “What kind of research?” The word came out crisp, like a challenge.

I hesitated. What was I supposed to say? Oh, I dreamed about Gilderoy Lockhart at the staff table, and then overheard children gossiping about him being in hospital, and now I need to prove to myself I’m not losing my mind?

I thought of their whispers: St. Mungo’s. Fraud. If a man that famous had landed in hospital, surely it would’ve made the papers.

I drew in a steadying breath. “Does the library keep archives of the Daily Prophet ?”

Her eyes cut to me again, sharper this time. A pause, then her mouth pressed into a thin line—not approval, but something closer to grim acknowledgment. “Those are popular today.”

“Oh… are they?” I asked, caught off guard.

She didn’t elaborate, already rising with a rustle of robes. “This way. Since you’re new, I’ll remind you—no food or drink beyond this point, no inkpots left uncapped, and under no circumstances is anyone to lean on the bindings.”

“Noted,” I said lightly, careful to keep my tone polite even as the rules made me feel like a schoolgirl being lectured.

I trailed after her, clutching my bag a little tighter, privately deciding this woman didn’t just guard the library—she haunted it.

Madam Pince led me to a set of tall, narrow shelves tucked into a corner, stacked neatly with bound volumes of past Prophets . She gestured briskly to the row without slowing. “Bound by month. Handle with care.”

Then she swept away, robes whispering back toward her desk.

Relief loosened the tension in my shoulders, though the sense of being watched lingered anyway—as if the library itself had eyes, and she’d trained them all to answer to her.

The leather cracked under my fingers as I pulled one free, the smell of old ink and dust curling up as I opened it across the stand. Each volume was bound by month, neat little time capsules, gilt-stamped along the spine.

If the students were right about last year, then the story wouldn’t be buried in term-time gossip. No—something this big would have broken in the summer. I flipped past spring editions, skimming through the neat columns of June before slowing over July, then August.

And there it was.

A too-white smile leapt out from the page, smug even in faded ink. My breath caught as my eyes snapped to the headline sprawled beneath it:

LOCKHART HOSPITALIZED AFTER SPELL BACKFIRES

The words blurred as I skimmed— Memory Charm gone awry… catastrophic backlash… spell reflected upon the caster himself… long-term treatment at St. Mungo’s… beloved author and professor tragically impaired.

Beloved. Tragic. The article read like an obituary dressed in hopeful euphemism. But the gist was clear enough: fraud unmasked, reputation in ruins, and a man broken by his own vanity.

My stomach tightened. It was confirmation, even if I hadn’t yet read every word.

A distant chime echoed faintly down the corridor—the bell warning that my break was nearly over. I had to get back. Reluctantly, I slid the volume shut, tucking it under my arm.

At the desk, Madam Pince eyed the Prophet as though I might bruise it just by carrying it. “Checking out?”

“Yes, please.” My voice came out a touch breathless.

She stamped the log with a sharp, decisive thunk, then handed the book back with pinched fingers, as though contact alone might damage it. “Return it promptly. No creases. And if I so much as smell tea on it—”

“Yes, ma’am,” I murmured, clutching the volume closer to my chest. The words slipped out before I could stop them, like I was a student being scolded rather than a professor on staff.

I pivoted quickly, eager to put distance between us. The hush of the library broke as the door groaned open and a stream of students funneled out beside me, voices low and hurried as they rushed for their next class. I slipped into their current, the Prophet pressed against my side with every step.

Even among the chatter and the shuffle of shoes on stone, the weight of it seemed louder than all of them—every page whispering the same truth: my dream might not have been only a dream. That smile rose unbidden in my mind—too white, too practiced—and for a moment I couldn’t tell if I remembered it so clearly from the article… or from the dream.

Chapter Text

“Your wand focuses your intent,” I told the fourth-years as I crossed to the chalkboard and underlined the next point. By now, the words came out on autopilot—the same quill demonstration, the same explanation, and still two more classes ahead of me. “But your magic doesn’t live in your wand. It lives in you. The trick is learning to direct it without the crutch you’ve grown used to.”

Most bent dutifully to their notes. A few traded sidelong looks, skeptical in that teenage way that said no proper witch or wizard would ever toss aside a wand.

I sketched the familiar diagram on the board—currents through the chest, down the arms, into the fingertips. My hand kept moving, but my thoughts drifted. Back to the book tucked in my bag. Back to that smile haunting my dreams. What exactly did I expect to find, chasing down Lockhart in the Prophet archives? That he was somehow sending me messages out of St. Mungo’s? The more I turned it over, the more absurd it seemed.

“Professor?”

The voice was soft, careful. I turned to find a Ravenclaw girl with long dark hair and a dusting of freckles across her nose—Cho Chang, if I’d remembered right. At least, I hoped so. The sheer number of names I was supposed to be keeping straight was already starting to blur.

“Yes, Miss Chang?”

She lifted her quill, hesitating. “You stopped mid-diagram.”

I glanced back at the board and winced. Somewhere in my wandering thoughts, I’d started retracing the same lines I’d already drawn. Heat crept up my neck. I forced the chalk forward, sketching the current to its proper end with brisk precision.

“Quite right. Thank you, Miss Chang.”

So much for seamless professionalism. At this rate, I was going to earn myself a reputation as the professor who went brain-dead whenever she picked up chalk.

If Cho noticed my slip, she gave no sign. Instead, her brow furrowed with quiet focus. “Is wandless magic less stable in… high-pressure situations? Like Quidditch? I was only wondering if the same focus you’d use in a match could help.”

A good question—exactly the sort I needed. I seized on it, grateful for the lifeline. “It depends on practice—and on panic,” I said. “Essencery pulls directly from you. If your emotions scatter, your control will too. That’s why we train—to teach your instincts to stay steady when the pressure spikes. Once you’ve done that, wandless magic can actually be sharper under pressure than wandwork—because there’s nothing standing between you and your magic.”

Cho nodded slowly, lips pursed as if already picturing it mid-dive, broomstick cutting through the air.

Beside Cho, a Ravenclaw boy lifted his hand, then blurted before I could call on him, “Could you, er, Accio a Quaffle without your wand? Hypothetically?”

A ripple of laughter ran through the desks. His ears flushed pink.

I gave him a gentler smile. “Hypothetically? Yes. Successfully? Well—let’s start with the basics and see where you stand. Your name?”

“Belby,” he said quickly, his quill blotching ink across the margin of his parchment. “Marcus Belby. My uncle’s Damocles Belby, if that helps—he invented the Wolfsbane potion.”

I nodded as if that ought to mean more to me than it did. “Of course.”

The chuckles faded, parchment rustled, and Marcus ducked his head again, scribbling furiously as though he hadn’t just announced himself to the entire class. I turned back to the board, chalk in hand, wondering what in Merlin’s name Wolfsbane potion was supposed to be—and why it even mattered.

By the time the bell rang, I’d run through the familiar points again, answered another half-dozen questions, and dismissed them with a reminder to review their notes before the week was out. The scrape of benches and shuffle of feet filled the room until the last of the Ravenclaws had slipped into the corridor, their chatter fading around the corner.

I gathered my bag, sliding the bound Prophet volume from between my papers as I shut the door behind me. The page fell open to the article I’d studied in the library, Lockhart’s smile beaming up like a wound that hadn’t healed. My stomach twisted. I snapped it shut and tucked it away, clutching the Prophet tighter against my side as I stepped into the corridor. The tide of students carried me along, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was chasing shadows—as if Lockhart was nothing more than grief twisting my imagination.

The Great Hall was already alive with the clatter of cutlery and bursts of laughter. I slipped into an empty seat at the staff table, set the book beside my plate, and reached for food that wouldn’t leave a trace. A roll, a slice of cheese, an apple. Safe choices. The thought of Madam Pince catching the faintest smear of grease on the Prophet volume made me shudder.

Only when the plate was arranged to my satisfaction did I pull the book open again, smoothing the spine with one hand while nibbling carefully with the other. Lockhart’s grin stared back, every bit as smug in faded ink as it had been in my dreams, as I began to read.

LOCKHART HOSPITALIZED AFTER SPELL BACKFIRES
By Celestina Warbeck, Special Correspondent

Gilderoy Lockhart, bestselling author of the Magical Me series and former Hogwarts professor, was admitted to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries this summer following a serious magical mishap.

Sources within the Ministry of Magic confirm that Mr. Lockhart attempted to subdue two students during an incident at Hogwarts involving a concealed monster in the school’s lower chambers. In the course of the altercation, Lockhart’s wand backfired catastrophically while casting a Memory Charm. The spell is believed to have reflected upon himself, causing what Healers are delicately describing as “severe and possibly permanent damage” to his memory.

“Memory magic is one of the most dangerous branches of spellwork,” said one St. Mungo’s Healer, speaking on condition of anonymity. “Even the most experienced Obliviators approach it with caution. When a spell of that magnitude collapses inward, the results are rarely reversible.”

Lockhart, once celebrated for his dazzling smile and tales of daring exploits, has been placed under long-term observation in the Janus Thickey Ward. Hospital representatives declined to speculate on his recovery, though one family member was quoted as saying, “He remembers his name, at least. Some days.”

The revelation has sparked wider questions about the authenticity of Lockhart’s published works. While the Ministry has not issued a formal statement, several former associates have hinted that his reputation as a “master of memory charms” may have extended well beyond his professional duties.

For now, the once-golden boy of wizarding society remains behind closed doors, his future uncertain.

I read the article through once, then again, scanning the same lines as though repetition might make something new appear. It didn’t. All it really confirmed was what the students had already said—Lockhart had been a teacher here, his Memory Charm had collapsed on him, and now he was wasting away in St. Mungo’s.

That was it. No secret message, no hidden thread, nothing to explain why I’d dreamed of him smiling from the staff table like I’d been here to see it.

Maybe I had seen this piece months ago, back when it ran. Maybe I’d skimmed it, then forgotten it in the fog of Gideon’s death. My mind had been so full then that it would be a miracle if anything had stayed lodged. Perhaps my subconscious had only dredged it up now, when everything was already raw.

I sighed and shut the volume, tucking it back into my bag as I reached and took a bite of my roll. You’re imagining patterns where there aren’t any. Let it go.

“Your husband was Gideon Winters?”

The words dropped out of nowhere. I nearly choked on the bite of bread in my mouth and glanced up, startled, to find Severus looming over me, his gaze dark and unreadable.

“Professor Snape. You startled me. Is that normally how you open a conversation?”

“Yes or no, Winters.”

“Yes…” The word came out cautious, wary. “I’m sorry. Did you know him?”

“Hardly. We crossed paths only once or twice. He struck me as a fool.” His eyes lingered a moment too long, sharp and unreadable, as though weighing something I couldn’t see. “Albeit a successful one.”

The words cut sharper than I expected, though I couldn’t have said why. Something in his tone carried weight I wasn’t meant to understand, like an inside joke at my expense.

I froze, the words sharp as glass between us. “Excuse me?”

But he had already looked away, the conversation closed as neatly as the book I had snapped shut only moments ago.

Lupin brushed past Severus on his way down the table, catching my expression as he drew up beside me. “What was that about?”

“I’ve no idea,” I murmured, watching black robes vanish through the doors. “But I’m fairly certain he just insulted me. Is he always that… peculiar?”

Lupin’s mouth curved in that mild, knowing way of his. “Peculiar? I suppose one could call it that. Though with Severus, barbed is often closer to the mark.”

I huffed, staring at my half-eaten roll. “Well, mission accomplished. I feel well and truly barbed.”

“He rarely wastes words without purpose,” Lupin said gently. “If he made a remark, it’s because he meant it. What he meant, though—” he lifted his shoulders in a small shrug “—only Severus could tell you.”

I hesitated, then glanced at him as he slid into the empty seat beside me.  “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked sooner—how do you two know each other so well?”

His expression eased, softening with memory but shaded at the edges with something heavier. “We were at school together. Same year, different worlds. He and I…” Lupin trailed off, as though sifting through the words. “Let’s just say we weren’t often on the same side of things.”

That was putting it mildly. The way they glared at each other the night we met suggested history thicker than old textbooks. “And yet you seem… almost protective of him,” I said carefully.

A faint smile touched his mouth. “Old habits. Or perhaps just perspective. We all carry our scars from those years. His are simply… closer to the surface.”

I let that sit for a moment, popping a piece of cheese in my mouth. The warmth in Lupin’s tone was a balm, even when the words weren’t entirely comforting.

“Don’t worry yourself,” he said more lightly, reaching for his goblet. “Our histories don’t need to become your burdens. Just keep your footing around him.”

I sighed. “Easier said than done.”

“Then perhaps a bit of practice would help,” he replied, eyes kind. “You haven’t forgotten our appointment after classes today, have you?”

For a moment, my thoughts had been so tangled in dreams and Severus’s cryptic cruelty that I nearly had. “No—of course not. I’ll be there.”

“Good,” he said, his voice warm with encouragement. “We’ll start at the beginning. A clear head will serve you better than brooding over Snape’s riddles.”

I managed a smile, thin and brittle, but the words clung like burrs: a fool… albeit a successful one.

Chapter Text

When the bell rang, I followed Remus out behind the stream of students. The corridor swelled with chatter and the swish of robes as the Hall emptied; Remus fell into step at my side, silent but steady.

Severus’s words still clung like burrs: sharp, petty, impossible to shake. A fool. Albeit a successful one.

What about Gideon would Snape consider foolish? Probably a hundred things. Gideon had been social, endlessly likable. He loved people and puzzles, and he spent his whole life chasing both—the sort of man who could talk his way into a locked tomb or charm a stranger into confessing secrets over a pint.

The sort of man Severus Snape would dislike on sight. By nature.

But the way his eyes had looked me over when he said successful made me wonder if he meant something underneath. Me? No. That sort of comment didn’t make sense coming from him. Not him. He must have been referring to something else entirely.

We’d only just reached the stairwell when a tart voice cut through the din.

“Professor Winters. A word, if you please.”

I turned, adjusting my bag. Professor McGonagall stood like a pillar in the current, parchment tucked under her arm, gaze as direct as a spell.

“I trust you’re settling in?” Her tone was brisk enough to make the words feel like business, not concern.

“As well as one can in a castle this size,” I said lightly.

She gave a small nod, then continued without pause. “We’ve had to make an adjustment to your timetable. There weren’t enough seventh-years to justify a separate section. The few who enrolled have been folded into your sixth-year slot.”

It took a beat to catch up. “So my last class period—”

“Free,” she confirmed crisply. “You needn’t take it personally. NEWT-level students are consumed with their core subjects. Electives rarely keep their attention.”

“Of course.” I kept my face polite, though the sting landed anyway. Not enough seventh-years. Couldn’t even fill a classroom.

McGonagall’s gaze sharpened. “Among those that did sign up is my own Quidditch captain, Mr. Oliver Wood. He seems to think your methods may lend themselves to his sport. If there is truth in it, I trust you will lead him in the right direction.”

I blinked. “To Quidditch?”

“Naturally. If it steadies his hand, all the better for Gryffindor.”

“I’ll certainly do what I can,” I said, though the words felt strange on my tongue. I’d never imagined my lessons had anything to do with broomsticks or Bludgers.

Her eyes flicked once toward Remus before she inclined her head and swept off into the current of students, robes snapping behind her.

I lingered a moment, unsettled. Cho Chang’s question from class still echoed in my head—whether wandless magic might hold steadier under Quidditch pressure. At first I’d taken it for harmless curiosity. But now, hearing McGonagall repeat the same thought in different words… no, this couldn’t just be coincidence. It was rumor, already twisting itself through the castle. And rumors at Hogwarts had a way of growing teeth.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Remus watching me—not with pity, but with that quiet, perceptive weight he carried. The kind of look that made me wonder if my mask had slipped more than I thought.

“She isn’t wrong,” he said at last, voice mild. “Seventh-years live and breathe NEWTs. It’s hardly a reflection on you.”

I tried for a smile. “Still feels like one.” And if even McGonagall was dragging Quidditch into it… well, I had no idea what sort of expectations I was about to face.

His gaze lingered a moment longer, as though testing whether I’d say more, then softened into reassurance. “Then let me offer you something better to think about. My last period is free as well. Why don’t we move our lesson up? A clear head now is better than brooding until evening.”

I tilted my head, raising a curious brow. “Don’t you need that time for planning?”

He shook his head, amused. “Fridays tend to be mercifully quiet for me. I can plan then. Grading will keep. But helping you find your footing—that feels a little more urgent.”

The warmth in his tone loosened the knot in my chest.

“Alright,” I said, smoothing the strap against my shoulder. “Earlier it is.”

“Good.” With a small incline of his head, he slipped back into the flow of students, leaving me steadier than I’d felt a moment before.

I started up the stairwell, the tide of students thinning as they split off toward their own classes. At the landing I turned toward the far wing where my classroom overlooked the lake. The corridors had emptied to a restless hush, footsteps echoing against stone as I climbed past tall windows flashing blue with waterlight. By the time I reached my door, a faint murmur drifted through—the small knot of sixth- and seventh-years waiting inside.

The sound cut off almost at once when I stepped across the threshold. Seven students. Scarcely more than a study group—I was lucky the timetable hadn’t swallowed them whole.

In the back row, two Slytherin boys slouched like they owned the place, one burly, the other leaner with a smirk that seemed borrowed from his shadow. A third boy lounged beside them, bored enough to be picking at the grain of the desk. Across the middle sat a pair of Ravenclaw girls, whispering until my entrance silenced them. Nearer the front, a Hufflepuff boy doodled circles across his parchment while a dark-haired Gryffindor sat straight-backed and sharp-eyed, posture rigid with purpose. McGonagall had mentioned her captain, Oliver Wood. If I had to guess, that would be him.

“Well,” I said, sliding my bag onto the desk. “Small crowd, then. At least it means I’ll learn your names faster than most professors.” A few uneasy chuckles stirred. “So—let’s do this a bit differently. I’ll go around the room and get to know each of you better.”

“Let’s start here,” I said, nodding toward the Gryffindor boy in the front. “I’m assuming you must be Oliver Wood.”

His chin lifted, posture tightening even further. “Yes, Professor. Oliver Wood.”

“I hear most seventh-years already have a full plate,” I said, tilting my head. “Why this class?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Because pressure decides everything. If there’s a way to keep steady when it matters most, I’ll make time for it.”

Vague. But if that wasn’t Quidditch, I’d eat my boots. Wood’s eyes flicked once toward the back row—the hulking Slytherin and his smirking companion—before snapping back to me, jaw set. Perhaps he didn’t want to tip his hand in front of them, or perhaps he simply wasn’t the sort to explain himself. Either way, I wasn’t about to be the one to name it out loud.

“Fair enough,” I said lightly, before shifting to the boy beside him.

The Hufflepuff boy next to Wood startled when my eyes landed on him, his quill jerking across the parchment so that one of his doodled circles turned into more of an egg.

“Uh—I’m Simon Vaisey. I’m taking this class out of mostly curiosity, I guess.”

“Curiosity’s a fine start,” I said, eyeing the spirals crawling across his parchment. “Is there anything in particular you’re curious about?”

He shifted in his seat, the quill turning between his fingers. “Not really. Just… thought it might be different. Something no one else teaches.”

I gave him a small nod. “Different, I can promise.”

Across the middle row, one of the Ravenclaw girls straightened, dark hair slipping over her shoulder. “Rowena Moon. I’d like to improve balance in dueling.”

“Balance is a good goal,” I said. “Is that for tournaments, or just to give you an edge in Defense class?”

Her quill tapped once against the desk before she answered. “Both. Defense duels first, but… I wouldn’t mind joining the club this year.”

“Then this class should serve you well,” I said with a nod. “We’ll be doing plenty of balance work this year.”

Her friend adjusted her parchment, eyes flicking up to me and back down again. “I’m Clara Edgecombe. I’m interested in the research potential. How Essencery connects to magical theory.”

“An academic mind,” I said, smiling faintly. “Is there a particular branch of theory you’re hoping to tie it to?”

Clara hesitated, twisting her quill. “Arithmancy, maybe. I like finding the patterns underneath things.”

“Then you’ll have plenty to dig into,” I said. “Essencery definitely is nothing if not patterns.”

My gaze shifted to the back row. The three Slytherins of the class sat there, a world apart from the rest. I took a few steps down the aisle. My eyes settled on the boy on the far side, slouched alone, shoulders hunched as if he’d rather melt into the desk than be noticed. He didn’t look up until I stopped beside his desk.

“Benedict Dorny,” he muttered at last, thumb dragging a pale groove into the wood. “Don’t really know what I expect from this.”

“Not knowing is allowed,” I said, keeping my tone steady. “But I’ll ask you to pay attention to what does catch your interest. That’s usually where the answer hides.”

His shoulders twitched in a half-shrug, but he gave a small nod without meeting my eyes.

I crossed to the next desk, where the wiry Slytherin lounged with his chair tipped back on two legs, grin already waiting for me.

“Adrian Pucey,” he said. “Honestly? Flint here dragged me along. He didn’t want to be the only one stuck in here.”

The boy beside him jabbed an elbow into his ribs. Pucey coughed, trying to turn it into a laugh.

“Ah—but I’m sure it’ll be fun,” he added quickly, smirk snapping back into place.

“Mm.” I let the sound hang, watching his chair thud back onto four legs. “Then let’s hope you find your own reasons by the end of term.”

I turned to the thickset boy beside him. “And you, Mr. Flint? Do you have a reason to be here?”

A humorless grin tugged at his mouth as he lifted a parchment and flicked it across his desk. “Snape wouldn’t let me into Potions,” he said flatly. “This seemed like the easiest substitute.”

I peered down at the paper on his desk. The sharp, slanted handwriting marched across it in vivid red. My chest went still.

“Do you mind if I take a look at that?” I asked, my voice eerily calm.

For a beat, his jaw tightened as though weighing whether to argue. Then he shoved the page toward me.

Mr. Marcus Flint,

Your performance in O.W.L. Potions has proven inadequate for NEWT-level study. I do not accept students scoring below ‘Outstanding.’ You will therefore not be admitted to my advanced course. I suggest you pursue electives better suited to your ability.

At the bottom, the ink curved into a final flourish: Professor S. Snape.

The letters blurred as I stared. I knew that script—every impatient stroke, every razor-edged curl. I had seen it, dreamt it, felt the scrape of the nib as though it were my own hand.

Lockhart had taken all my focus in that dream. The essays I’d written off as just classroom scenery. But this—this was proof. Who else bled criticism like ink? Who else would sneer at Lockhart even in sleep? The handwriting, the disdain—the sheer arrogance in every stroke. Of course.

It was Snape. The dream hadn’t been my imagination. It had been him.

My fingers tightened before I realized, crumpling the corner of the parchment. Flint smirked as if he’d caught me out in something, though Pucey’s chuckle made it clear neither of them had the faintest idea what.

“Problem, Professor?” Flint asked.

I forced my grip to ease, smoothing the page before sliding it back toward him. “No,” I said. My voice sounded steady. I wasn’t sure I believed it.

I turned to the class, pulse thundering in my ears. “Quills out,” I said sharply. “We’ve wasted enough time.”

As I moved toward the chalkboard, the words blurred, every line of chalk overshadowed by the same thought, looping endlessly:

I hadn’t just dreamed about him. I’d dreamed through him.

Chapter Text

I pulled the classroom door shut behind me as the last of the class funneled into the corridor. Pressing my palm to the handle, I let a thread of essence slip into the mechanism, coaxing the tumblers until the lock clicked home. In the wizarding world, locks were laughably useless—Alohomora could undo them faster than any key—but at least this would keep stray students from wandering in and rifling through my things.

As I turned, I caught Marcus Flint shouldering through the dispersing crowd with Pucey at his side. He glanced back, caught me watching, and let a grin spread across his face—slow, mocking, deliberate. A chuckle followed him down the stairwell, quiet enough that the others missed it, loud enough to scrape under my skin.

I slipped my hand into my pocket, but the unease lingered like a splinter. Too many of those already today.

For a moment, I considered heading straight to Remus’s classroom. Better to keep moving, better to bury myself in distractions. But the thought of sitting under his steady gaze, pretending to be composed when I was anything but, made my stomach twist.

The truth cut clearly through me: I hadn’t just dreamed of Snape. I had dreamed through him. Flint’s parchment had only proved it—the red strokes weren’t just familiar, they were mine from my dream, as if my hand had dragged the nib across the page.

What did it mean to slip inside another person’s eyes? Could it be some twisted form of Legilimency? Could he feel it too? And if he did—would he know it was me?

My feet carried me forward without asking, heels striking stone, the sound sharp in the thinning tide of voices. I slipped between a knot of second-years, barely hearing their chatter, the air still heavy with ink and wool cloaks.

The thought coiled tight in my chest, like essence caught in the wrong channel. Whatever this was, it hadn’t been chance. It began the moment I pressed my essence into his, when that demonstration tangled us together. Something had gone wrong, and now it was unraveling in ways I didn’t know and couldn’t control.

I pushed through the doors at the end of the corridor, sunlight spilling low and gold across the flagstones of the courtyard. The crisp air did nothing to cool the heat in my face.

So what was my next step? To tell him? Honesty was supposed to be the high road—the path that meant I wouldn’t have to face this… whatever it was, alone.

But I hadn’t been honest, had I? That night in my office, I’d lied and said it was normal. To admit the truth now would be to admit I’d deceived him. He would never believe me. Never forgive me.

And what if it was one-sided? What if it was only me unraveling, and all I’d accomplish by confessing was to make him furious for no reason?

I drew a deep breath as I crossed the grass, skirting a group of Hufflepuffs tossing a quaffle back and forth, their laughter light against the heaviness in my chest.

No. It was better to keep quiet until I understood it—until I had something resembling a solution. With luck, I would fix it before he ever had to know.

My stride slowed as the slope dipped toward the lake. Below, I caught sight of a familiar figure: Hagrid, massive and unmistakable, leading a hippogriff across the grass from the treeline. Its silver-and-bronze feathers caught in the last light of day, gleaming like hammered metal.

The sight pierced through my spiraling thoughts like cold air, pulling me sharply back into myself.

A hippogriff! I hadn’t been this close to one since I was seventeen. Fifteen years. The sudden thrill cut through the fog in my head. Perfect. Exactly the distraction I needed before I had to face Remus.

I lifted a hand high, breaking into a half-run, careful not to startle the creature below.

“Professor!” I called, waving to catch Hagrid’s attention.

Hagrid lifted a broad hand as soon as he spotted me, palm out.

“Steady there, Professor! Best not come rushin’ at him—hippogriffs like their manners. Yeh’ll want to keep yeh distance ‘til he knows yeh.”

I slowed at once, smiling despite myself, my pulse quick, more thrill than fear. “Understood,” I said, stopping a few safe yards away. “Would it be all right if I approached? Properly, of course.”

Hagrid blinked, clearly surprised. He glanced at the hippogriff, then back at me. “Well—if yeh know the way, go on, then. Jus’ mind yeh bow polite-like.”

I stepped forward slowly, every movement deliberate, then bent low at the waist. A moment passed. Then another. I stayed still, breath catching tight in my chest. What if fifteen years had dulled me? What if he read my eagerness as arrogance? Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hagrid shift, ready to intervene.

The hippogriff tossed his head once, wings ruffling, talons scoring the grass. My stomach knotted—until, at last, he dipped into a dignified bow of his own. Relief flooded through me so sudden I nearly laughed.

I straightened carefully, extending a hand to stroke the sleek feathers of his neck. His plumage was warm beneath my palm, softer than memory, though I could feel the strength coiled just under the surface.

Hagrid’s beard split in a grin. “Well, I’ll be! Buckbeak’s taken to yeh straight off. Where’d yeh learn tha’? Not many outside me class can manage it.”

I rested a hand briefly at Buckbeak’ shoulder, nostalgia tugging at me. “From a professor back in America. He kept a hippogriff named Artemis. Caring for her was half my training.”

Hagrid let out a low, impressed chuckle. “Artemis, eh? That’s somethin’. Yeh don’ hear much about folks keepin’ ’em, let alone teachin’ with ’em.”

I stopped myself before saying more. Half-truths held better when you didn’t pile them too high. Better to steer it elsewhere.

“Well—you teach with them by the looks of it,” I said lightly, resting my hand against Buckbeak’s shoulder. “And maybe more teachers should. You learn a lot from them. Balance, for one. And respect. The kind that keeps you humble. With a hippogriff, there’s no pretending—you either mean it, or you’re on the ground.”

Hagrid nodded along, his grin broadening. “Tha’s true enough. Teaches yeh not to go thinkin’ yeh’re bigger than yeh are. Yeh act careless, they’ll have yeh on the ground in no time.”

He squinted at me, curiosity sparking again. “What subject’d this professor o’ yours teach?”

I forced a smile. “Magical Theory.”

At his skeptical look, I added quickly, “Professor Greaves was a bit eccentric. Didn’t always stick to the syllabus.”

Hagrid barked a laugh, the sound booming. “Sounds like me sort o’ teacher.”

I let out a breath and stepped back from Buckbeak, brushing my hand against my robes before extending it toward Hagrid. “I’m sorry—we haven’t been properly introduced. Heather Winters.”

His dark eyes brightened with recognition as he clasped my hand in his own massive one. My fingers nearly disappeared in his grip, rough as bark and warm, yet surprisingly gentle, careful not to crush.

“Course, course—I’ve seen yeh at the staff table. Rubeus Hagrid. Keeper o’ Keys an’ Grounds—an’ Care of Magical Creatures professor, this year.”

There was a touch of pride in the way he said it, beard splitting in a grin.

Before I could reply, a solid nudge pressed against my shoulder. I glanced back to find Buckbeak had stretched his great head toward me, amber eyes fixed expectantly. A laugh slipped out before I could stop it, light and unguarded.

“Oh, he’s such a sweetheart,” I said, resting my fingers along his beak. His head was massive beneath my hand, the curve of his beak sharp enough to pierce bone, yet his gaze was warm, steady.

Hagrid chuckled, his chest rumbling. “Tha’s Buckbeak for yeh—soft as anythin’ once he takes a shine to yeh. But not everyone gives ’im the respect he deserves.” His expression sobered, the pride in his eyes dimming. “Had a bit o’ trouble today. Malfoy boy got himself hurt, an’ I reckon there’ll be hell to pay for it.”

“Malfoy boy?” I echoed. My mind jumped back to my own classroom—the pale-haired student who’d stared at me so intently during my first lesson. “He a third year?”

Hagrid gave a grim nod.

“Is he all right?”

“He’ll be fine. Buckbeak only gave ’im a scratch, nothin’ serious. But yeh’d think the lad lost an arm, the way he carried on.” He shook his shaggy head, frustration in every line of him. “Truth is, he provoked Buckbeak. Went right at ’im, callin’ ’im names, like he thought he could do what he liked. Foolish, tha’ was. Hippogriffs don’ take kindly to insults.”

His shoulders sagged, heavy with worry, and his voice dropped rough, like the words themselves weighed him down. “Still, I know how this’ll go. Malfoy’ll be out for revenge—an’ not jus’ him neither. His father’ll have half the Board o’ Governors screamin’ for my head before the week’s out.”

The words “Board of Governors” landed like a stone in my stomach. A boy’s scratch was one thing, but politics—that could gut a man’s post, even decide a creature’s fate. Buckbeak’s life might hang heavier in their eyes than the truth of what had happened.

My thoughts snagged back to Malfoy. That sharp-eyed interest he’d shown in my first lesson, the way he’d watched me so intently. Dangerous as it was, maybe his curiosity could be turned to something more useful than spite.

I glanced back at Hagrid. “I know you have no reason to trust me, Professor—”

“Jus’ Hagrid,” he interrupted, his tone soft but firm. “Everyone calls me that.”

I inclined my head. “Hagrid, then. I may have an idea to change the Malfoy boy’s opinion—if you’re open to unconventional methods.”

His brows furrowed beneath the wild thatch of his hair, and he gave Buckbeak’s reins a thoughtful tug. “Unconventional, yeh say?” He eyed me, wary but not dismissive. “Can’t say I’m one fer meddlin’ with that lot. Malfoys don’ change easy. But—” his voice dropped, worry roughening it—“I’ll take anythin’ that’ll keep Buckbeak safe.”

“Malfoy is in my first class tomorrow,” I said. “Let me see if there’s anything that can be done. If it works, I’ll go over the specifics with you after.”

Inside, though, the weight pressed harder. If I failed tomorrow, it wouldn’t just be my credibility on the line.

Hagrid studied me for a long moment, the lines of worry still etched deep across his face. Then he gave a slow nod, heavy and resigned. “All right, Professor Winters. I’ll hold yeh to tha’.”

“Please,” I said with a small smile. “Call me Heather. Any friend of Buckbeak’s is a friend of mine.”

His booming laugh carried across the grass, startling a few of the other hippogriffs in the paddock nearby. “Fair enough, Heather. Fair enough.”

The sun had slipped lower, and with a quick glance at the sky, I realized my time was running short. “I’d best get to Lupin’s lesson,” I said, offering Hagrid a grateful nod. “Thank you—for trusting me.”

“Reckon I’ll be thankin’ you tomorrow, if yeh can pull it off,” he said, giving Buckbeak an affectionate pat.

I turned toward the castle, my steps brisk on the grass. Warmth settled in my chest, easing the knot that had been there since class. Between Remus’s quiet kindness and Hagrid’s open trust, maybe I wasn’t as adrift at Hogwarts as I’d feared. But tomorrow would test whether that trust was deserved—and whether I was capable of more than just good intentions.

Chapter Text

Unfortunately for me, I hadn’t considered that I had no idea where the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was. By the time I reached the corridors proper, the students had already vanished into their lessons, doors shutting around me like the castle itself was laughing at my mistakes. Not a soul left to ask.

My footsteps clattered far too loudly in the hush—the sound of someone who very much did not know where she was going.

Wasn’t it in a tower? Or at least on an upper floor? I stepped onto a staircase I thought I remembered, only to find myself on an entirely different level, circling like a ghost with no place to haunt.

At this rate, I’d end up in the Astronomy Tower, pretending that’s where I’d meant to be all along.

The corridor stretched empty in both directions. Brilliant. Second day on the job, and I’d managed to get myself lost again. If Snape ever found out, I’d never hear the end of it. I turned in a slow circle, scanning the stone walls as though a helpful sign might sprout from the mortar.

It wasn’t until the quiet grew thick that I realized I wasn’t alone.

Eyes followed me. Portraits lined the walls, heads swiveling, mouths twitching with smirks. A few whispered behind painted hands until one—a thin, balding man with a quill tucked behind his ear and ink blotches on his cuff—gave an audible huff.

“Lost, are we?” he said, peering over the rim of his spectacles as though my confusion were a personal failing.

“Just slightly,” I replied with a polite smile. “Is the Defense classroom nearby?”

“Ah, yes, yes. Defense Against the Dark Arts. A most slippery room. Used to be a storeroom for alchemical glassware until the great east wing renovation of 1721—or was it ’22?—when they—”

“Do you know the directions?” I cut in before he could bury me under architectural trivia. My smile slipped, and I quickly plastered it back on.

He blinked owlishly, then waved a vague hand down the corridor. “Third staircase on the left. Unless it’s shifted since luncheon, in which case you’ll want the second on the right. Or possibly the landing by Uric the Oddball—depends on his mood, really.”

What kind of directions were those? I could try staircases until Christmas and still not find it.

“You’re very helpful,” I said, because thank you for nothing felt impolite.

His expression brightened as if I’d knighted him. “I do try.”

I took a few steps in the direction he had waved, determined to at least take a shot at it before a final thought crossed my mind, stopping me short. I turned back toward his frame. “Sorry. I seem to have forgotten the directions already. Do you think perhaps you could show me the way instead?”

He peered at me over his spectacles as though I’d just confessed to misplacing my own head. “Forgotten already? Hopeless.” He gave a sharp sniff, pushing himself up from his painted chair. “Very well. Follow me. And do try to keep up.”

With a dramatic sweep of his ink-stained sleeve, he hopped into the next frame—one that featured a stout wizard in midnight-blue robes hunched over a celestial globe.

“You again?” the stout man grumbled, throwing me a harried glance as if I’d encouraged this intrusion. “Do you ever stay in your own frame?”

“When the company improves,” my guide replied tartly, brushing phantom dust from his cuff before striding across the painted floorboards and slipping into the following portrait without breaking stride.

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it as I broke into a jog to keep pace. Only at Hogwarts would the wall art hold grudges.

I followed him up one staircase, down another, across landings that seemed to shift just to spite me, his voice drifting smugly from frame to frame as he muttered about renovations and forgotten corridors. At last, the passage opened onto a door left ajar at the end of the hall, and relief flooded me. Finally.

“Here we are,” he declared, puffing up with pride. “Simple enough when one knows the way.”

“Thank you,” I said earnestly. “I never would have been able to find it without your help.”

His expression brightened as though I’d handed him an award. With a self-satisfied sniff, he added, “Do try to remember the route this time.” Then he began retracing his steps through the frames, drawing mutters of irritation from the occupants he disturbed on the way back.

I rolled my eyes, but the smile lingered anyway as I stepped up to the open door. Raising my hand, I rapped lightly on the frame. “Professor Lupin?”

No answer.

The silence stretched until it became ridiculous to hover in the doorway, so I stepped inside.

The classroom stretched broad and tall, sunlight slanting through high windows in pale stripes across the stone floor. Rows of desks marched neatly toward a wide blackboard, the kind of setup that announced: this subject mattered.

My own desks tilted awkwardly into corners, crammed wherever they fit in a room that had never been meant for teaching at all. Even my blackboard leaned like an afterthought, borrowed from some forgotten storeroom. His classroom felt purposeful. Mine still felt makeshift.

Along the walls stood cabinets filled with cages and jars, their contents glinting faintly in the afternoon light. A hulking wardrobe loomed at the far side, doors shut tight, as though guarding some secret lesson to come. Everything about this room declared itself legitimate—established, necessary, at the very center of what Hogwarts was meant to teach.

My classroom by contrast had little more than a cramped floor space, a scattering of chairs, and the curiosity of a handful of volunteers. The difference pressed against me here, impossible not to notice.

Still, I let my eyes wander the tall windows and expansive floor with a half-smile tugging at my lips. “Maybe one day I’ll get a classroom this large,” I murmured, half teasing. Half knowing I wouldn’t.

“Perhaps when you manage to arrive on time,” said a dry voice.

I startled, turning just as the side door to a small office opened and Remus stepped out. His patched robes and faint smile softened the jab, but the glint in his eyes said he’d noticed.

Heat pricked my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I managed to get myself lost again.”

He crossed a few steps into the room, folding his arms loosely, as though weighing how much fun he could have at my expense. “Is Dumbledore’s offer to have Snape show you around becoming more tempting?”

A nervous laugh slipped out. “Not that desperate yet, thank you.”

Remus’s chuckle faded into a thoughtful glance toward the clock. He unfolded his arms, clapping his hands lightly once. “Well then—before we lose the afternoon, let’s begin.”

I straightened instinctively, though my cheeks still burned.

“The Patronus,” he said, stepping nearer the blackboard, “isn’t just a spell—it’s light given form through memory and will.”

Light through memory. I tilted my head, rolling the words around. “I can make light,” I offered, lifting my palm. A small flame flared to life, gold licking across my fingertips. “But only through fire.”

He nodded, gaze sharp but not unkind. “Fire creates warmth and light, yes—but a Patronus is more than that. It’s protection, joy, a projection of the self.”

That made me pause. Protection and joy, not just light. Something clicked in my mind. “Ah. So it’s emotionally based, then.”

At his raised brow, I continued, “That’s true of essencery too. Fire works best with passion or anger. Water needs calm. Air thrives on curiosity, sometimes even restlessness. Earth… determination, mostly.”

“And happiness?” he asked, curiosity softening his tone. “What does that channel into for you?”

I hesitated, flexing my fingers. “I don’t know. I’ve never really tried before.”

His expression softened, encouraging. “Then try it now. Call to mind a memory that makes you happy. Let’s see what happens.”

I drew a slow breath and closed my eyes. A memory rose easily—Gideon’s laugh, warm and unguarded, rumbling through our little kitchen until it shook the spoons in their crock. I could almost smell the yeast and flour in the air, fine dust motes catching the sunlight as he wrestled with the bread dough. He’d insisted on charming it to knead itself—until the lump slapped the table with a wet thud, then sprang up and smacked him square in the face.

I’d laughed until my ribs ached, clutching the counter for balance, tears blurring my eyes. He’d grinned through it all, a streak of flour across his jaw, and flour still floating between us like golden sparks.

Even now, the sound of his laugh echoed in my ears, rich and alive. Warmth gathered at my fingertips, pale sparks flickering there like fireflies. For a heartbeat, it almost felt real.

But warmth never lasts for me.

The laughter warped, echoing against stone instead of plaster walls. Flour motes became snowflakes, cold and sharp in my lungs. The sparks on my skin dimmed as the toll of the bell slammed through my head, louder and louder, until thought itself fractured.

I saw him turn in the lamplight, just as he had that night. He had told me to stay home. To trust him. To let him work. And I hadn’t.

Stupid. I had to follow, didn’t I? Couldn’t leave him be. Couldn’t trust him. Had to ruin everything.

The bell still rang in my ears, his body falling face-first into the snow every time I blinked.

He died because of me. Because I was weak. Because I was selfish. Because I couldn’t do the one thing he asked—

My eyes flew open. Flame burst in my palm, roaring with my heartbeat before sputtering out into smoke, the last ember guttering out.

I blew a breath through my teeth, forcing a thin smile. “Well. Seems I’m only capable of fire today.”

Remus’s brow furrowed, though not unkindly. He’d been watching closely—I could tell from the way his gaze lingered on my face more than my hand. “Not only fire. There were sparks, too. More than most manage on their first attempt, even with a wand.”

I gave a quiet laugh that didn’t quite reach my chest. “I’m fairly certain a Patronus isn’t meant to set the castle alight. Sparks won’t do me much good if they keep turning into... something else.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “Perhaps not. But you did call something up. That spark matters. The rest can be shaped.” His tone softened, steady as a tether. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. The Patronus is among the most difficult charms we know. Even with wands, many fail. And those who succeed still falter when darker memories press in. You’re not alone in that.”

I rubbed my thumb across my palm, still feeling the phantom heat. “So what do you recommend?”

He studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “Find a memory that holds steady,” he said at last. “One that doesn’t fracture under its own weight. The Patronus only takes root in happiness strong enough to endure when doubt presses in.”

I nodded slowly, the ache in my chest tightening. A memory that didn’t turn on me—if such a thing even existed.

“Consider it homework,” he added gently. “And don’t be discouraged if it takes time. For most, it does.”

I forced a small smile. “Is that all for today, then?”

“For today,” Remus agreed with a small nod. “We’ll pick it back up next week. And remember—your homework.”

I gave a faint smile, though the ache in my chest made it brittle. A memory that held steady. If such a thing existed.

We left the classroom together in companionable silence, his easy stride at odds with the heaviness pressing down on me. By the time we reached the Great Hall, the air was already buzzing with chatter and the clatter of plates. I slipped into my usual place at the staff table, the smells of roast chicken and baked bread doing little to ease the weight in my chest.

Dinner blurred past in a haze of polite conversation and clinking cutlery. When it was over, I excused myself early, grateful for the quiet of the corridors leading back to my rooms.

The door closed behind me with a solid click, shutting out the castle’s endless hum. At last, alone.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands, still half-expecting to see sparks or smoke. Remus wanted me to find a memory that wouldn’t collapse under its own weight. I doubted I’d find one tonight.

No—tonight would bring something else.

I drew a breath and braced myself. If the night before had taught me anything, it was that my dreams no longer belonged to me. They belonged to him.

And Merlin only knew what he would have in store for me tonight.

Chapter Text

I made my way through my evening routine. Boots by the hearth. Robes hung neat on the chair. Blouse unbuttoned, folded, set carefully aside. Each small task slowed me down, as though order alone might hold off what waited for me in sleep.

At last I slid between the sheets. The linen was cold, clinging like stone. A shiver worked across my skin. I lay staring at the ceiling, counting breaths, listening to the silence stretch through the room. The castle shifted faintly around me—the creak of timbers, the sigh of wind through stone—but none of it eased the hollow press inside my ribs.

It would happen again. I could feel it—his world pressing into mine, dreams that weren’t mine tangling in my head.

The thought made me dizzy. It felt invasive, wrong. To know I would walk into another man’s dreams, his memories, with no way to stop it. It was its own kind of Unforgivable. Maybe I was guilty of something. Maybe I deserved the weight of it.

But guilt wouldn’t help me. I needed an anchor, something to keep myself from blurring when I slipped into him. My pulse thudded loud in my ears as I closed my eyes, breath tight, hovering on the edge of sleep.

His world, not mine.

The words whispered in the dark, my only tether. Once. Twice. Again—until sound itself gave way, replaced by the soft sound of laughter.

It spilled across the air, bright and unguarded, so sweet it made my chest ache. A fondness welled up inside me, sharp and dizzying.

No, not me. Him. Remember yourself, Heather. Keep focused.

I forced myself to concentrate until the scene sharpened. Sunlight dappled through the trees, the smell of warm earth and green things curling in the air. I was… sitting in the grass. My eyes slid sideways, and I caught sight of a girl in Gryffindor robes lying on her stomach beside me, her schoolbooks forgotten in the grass. Her hair flashed copper in the light, her smile lit her whole face.

She was beautiful. Too beautiful. The sight of her hurt to hold, though my gaze kept flicking back anyway—careful, hungry little glances, desperate not to be caught staring too long.

The realization sent a chill down my spine. Merlin, Snape, she’s just a child—

But then she lifted her head, and our eyes met. My—his—eyes darted down at once, fixing on a book in his lap. And that’s when I saw them: pale, narrow hands braced against the pages. Ink-stained cuffs. Green-trimmed school robes. Not my hands. Not a man’s hands. A boy’s.

Relief rushed through me, sharp and dizzy, easing the knot in my chest. Never in my life had I been so glad to be wrong.

Her laughter faded as she flipped onto her back, her hair spilling like fire onto the grass. She tipped her head toward me, eyes bright. “I wish we had more time together, like this. Seems you’re always off with them lately.”

The fondness in my chest surged at her words, too sharp to mistake for my own. And then—without my consent—my mouth opened.

The sound that spilled out wasn’t mine. A voice rolled from my throat, low and masculine, foreign yet unmistakably familiar. Snape’s voice—but younger, thinner, still unsteady. Hearing it scrape out of me made my skin prickle.

“You’re welcome to join us,” he said, my lips shaping the words I couldn’t believe I was speaking.  “Me, Mulciber, Avery—”

Her nose wrinkled, the smile slipping. “You know I don’t like them, Sev.” She pushed herself up to a seated position and turned around to face me, her eyes seemingly shadowed now. “They’re not... the same.”

A wave of unease pushed through me, and again my lips moved of their own accord, his voice spilling out, rough with wounded pride. “How aren’t they the same? How are they any different from your friends?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers worried at a blade of grass, twisting until it snapped. “Mary and Marlene have... different senses of humor.”

My—his—eyes stayed fixed on her, waiting.

She sighed, almost too quietly to hear. “They’re not...” She hesitated, then met my gaze. “Not cruel.”

The word landed sharply in my chest with the sting of shame clouding my thoughts. Before I could stop it, his voice spat out, “You only say that because they’re Slytherins.”

Her face changed at once, the warmth draining from it, leaving her eyes hard. “That’s not fair, Sev.” She gathered her books quietly, hugging them to her chest as if she was trying to consider what more to say—when a voice called from the path.

A girl with dark curls and a satchel slung across her shoulder hurried towards us, her red trimmed robes swishing around her ankles. She waved at the red-haired girl beside me, breathless from running. “Come on, Lily! We’ll be late.”

Lily.

The ache in my chest spiked, and before I could even try to stop it, my body was rising to its feet. The younger voice spilled again from my throat, low and defensive. “I can walk her.”

The girl slowed, frowning faintly. Lily pushed herself up from the grass, balancing her books in her arms. She shook her head, her smile tugging soft but strained. “No, it’s okay. Mary and I both got Charms next.”

I felt him falter, the space between them heavy with words left unsaid.

Lily shifted her grip on her books and glanced up at me. Her voice dropped, gentler now. “I don’t hate you, you know that?”

The younger voice came out too quick, too sharp. “Of course not.” Pride wrapped tight around something softer. For a heartbeat, a flicker of relief passed through him—unsteady, unsure—but it faded as she looked away.

She hesitated, then added quietly, “I’ll see you in the library later, yeah?”

I—he—nodded, the motion small, almost uncertain.

She smiled then—a small, perfect curve of the mouth that caught the light and made the whole world seem warmer for a heartbeat. The kind of smile you’d want to believe in.

Then she turned and jogged up the path, red hair flaring in the sun as she ran to catch up with the other girl. They fell into step together, laughter carrying faintly back on the breeze as they climbed toward the castle.

He stood watching her go, the sunlight gilding the air where she’d been, a faint warmth lingering in his chest. The echo of laughter still shimmered through the air—lighter, deeper, shifting—until it became someone else’s.

A footstep sounded behind me, the shadow trailing it stretching across the grass.

When I turned, a boy had fallen into step beside me—tall, broad-shouldered, his hair catching the same gold light that had just set Lily alight. He grinned, easy and familiar, the kind of grin that promised trouble and laughter in equal measure.

For a moment, my mind refused to place him. And then it hit.

Gideon.

My heart stuttered. He was so young—untouched by years, by war, by the ending I already knew. I took him in: the unlined face, the careless ease in his shoulders, the warmth in his eyes. It was him. Alive. Whole. Everything I’d been trying to hold on to and losing, piece by piece.

“You’re lucky, you know,” he said, clapping a firm hand to my shoulder. “A redhead like that—one day, I’ll find one of my own.”

If I’d had control of this face, it would have fallen. Five months he’s been gone. Buried. Mourned. And the first words that I hear from his lips are about finding himself a redhead.

The ache in my chest twisted in on itself, grief buckling into something small and hollow. Of all the things you could have said, Gideon…

Snape must’ve agreed with me about the foolishness of it, because I felt him move—shoulder tightening beneath Gideon’s hand, pride flaring like static.

“Get off, MacLeod,” I heard myself mutter—the younger, rougher voice again—but there was a faint curl of satisfaction beneath it. I felt the sharp movement as his shoulder jerked, shoving Gideon’s hand away. The warmth from a moment ago sealed over, hard and fast.

Gideon just laughed, loud and delighted, as if the reaction had been the joke. “Alright, alright,” he said, still grinning as he backed away. Then he jogged toward a pair of boys waiting near the path, tossing one last glance over his shoulder before rejoining them.

Their laughter carried faintly behind him—carefree, thoughtless, too young to know what it meant to lose anything.

The sound pressed in on me. I could feel Severus’s quiet resentment simmer under my ribs, the sting of being left behind. But beneath it, something heavier stirred—mine, not his. Grief answering grief.

The path began to waver, the colors thinning to gray. Panic surged through me as I tried to hold the image of Gideon steady before me, even that stupid, smug, irritating grin of his. But it slipped through my grasp like smoke.

The light dimmed, laughter thinning to a distant echo, and then the world itself folded inward and vanished.

I woke with a gasp, the dim light of dawn spilling across the ceiling. My heart was still thudding, the remnants of the dream clinging like smoke—Gideon’s younger face, that ridiculous line, the echo of someone else’s voice slipping past my lips.

For a moment, the warmth of it almost felt real—sunlight, Lily’s laughter, the sound of her voice tangled with the ache of Snape’s. But as it settled, something colder rose in its place.

“A fool—albeit a successful one,” I repeated softly.

Snape had said those exact words that day in the Great Hall.

A fool. Gideon had clearly been acting like one. That part was obvious, but…

I reached up, catching a loose strand of hair between my fingers, letting the deep red coil lightly around my knuckle. “Gideon, you idiot,” I murmured under my breath, letting my hand and the strand fall together.

Of course. That was the inside joke I’d missed.

He’d reduced my husband to a fetishist, all because of something Gideon said when he couldn’t have been more than fourteen. I inwardly groaned.

This wasn’t important. All it proved was that I either had a very vivid imagination or that I was, in fact, seeing into Snape’s memories. Either way, it left me in the same position as yesterday.

Focus. What about this dream couldn’t I have simply invented? What could be proven if I looked into it?

The girl. Lily.

She couldn’t have been more than fifteen, maybe sixteen. Bright, confident, warm in a way that seemed to light the air around her. Everything about her drew the eye—that easy laugh, the flash of copper hair, the way she spoke to him like she genuinely liked him.

And he’d been… helpless in the face of it.

I could still feel the pull of her—that mix of admiration and hope that made his chest tighten every time she smiled. It wasn’t lust, not really—just a desperate wanting to matter, to stay in her orbit a little longer.

I didn’t know what became of her—if they stayed friends, if she drifted away, if he ever told her how he felt. But I knew what it was like, that bright ache of wanting to be seen.

And somehow, it didn’t fit with the man I knew now—the man who went out of his way not to be seen.

I felt a pang of something—sympathy, maybe—and pushed it down. Sentiment wasn’t going to help. I needed to understand what I’d seen.

If she was the same age as Snape, then she would be somewhere in her early thirties now. Maybe, even if he hadn’t kept in contact with her, he would at least know what became of her. He’d seemed obsessive enough at the time to have kept tabs on her. And if I could get him to admit her existence, I could confirm the bond between us once and for all.

Though, perhaps it was a moot point—the handwriting alone seemed proof enough. But I didn’t have another lead to follow. Not yet.

Maybe it was time to write that letter to one of my masters…

Chapter Text

I woke before the sun, the window washed in blue-gray light, dawn crouched just below the horizon. For a long moment I only lay there, eyes half-open, watching the world hold its breath in that hush between night and morning.

Too early for breakfast—too late to pretend I could fall back asleep.

The dream still clung like smoke, but this time it hadn’t blurred the moment I woke. Every detail had stayed sharp: the sunlight on her hair, the weight of guilt in my chest, even the sound of Gideon’s laugh, heard through another man’s ears.

It hadn’t been like the Lockhart dream. That one had felt… observed. Distant. Like watching through glass. But this—this had been lived. Breathing, feeling, bleeding real. And the more vivid it became, the less I could convince myself it was coincidence.

The dreams were escalating. And I had no idea how far they were capable of going.

The thought of it pressed behind my eyes, raw and wrong. I needed air, movement, order—anything to shake the echo of someone else’s memory.

I swung my legs out of bed, bare feet meeting the chill of stone. If this is essencery at its core, I thought, then lying here will do nothing.

The air carried the sharp, clean bite of a Scottish morning. I drew it deep and let it wake me fully, then crossed to the wardrobe beside the vanity. I traded my nightclothes for training gear—fitted trousers tucked into boots, a soft linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a dark green vest belted at the waist. No robes, no loose fabric. Nothing that could catch or distract.

I gathered my hair in both hands, twisting it into a braid and tying it at the nape of my neck until it no longer brushed my shoulders. One tug, one breath, and the familiar steadiness began to settle.

I reached for the leather band on my wrist, tightening it out of habit before heading to the door. The hinges creaked softly as I pulled it open to a corridor still half-asleep, torches guttering low. My footsteps sounded too loud in the hush.

If the dreams were growing stronger, there had to be a reason. Some link—something I was missing about how essences interact during sleep. Spiritual resonance, psychic bleed... something.

I should start keeping track. Compare them. Dates, details, triggers—before I lose the thread.

But not on parchment. Too exposed. I grimaced at the thought of someone finding the notes—my next-door neighbor in particular topping that list.

No, I’d need something sealed. Charmed. Maybe something I could pick up in Hogsmeade. I was already planning to go once payday came. Unfortunately, that meant waiting until Friday—two more nights of dreams before then. And who knew what those might bring.

I headed down toward the grounds. The castle felt different at this hour—alive in its own strange way, the portraits murmuring in their sleep, the walls seeming to breathe with the torches’ light. At the great doors, I slowed, drawing in one steadying breath before stepping into the pale, dawn-lit haze.

By the time I reached the lake, the first gray of morning had begun to break the water into shards of light. If the dreams stemmed from essence, then I’d treat them like any other imbalance. Find the source. Correct the flow.

The world was still outside. Mist drifted low over the grass, silvering the edges of the lake. The surface lay smooth and dark, catching the faint glow of stars that hadn’t yet faded.

I moved to the water’s edge, closing my eyes, and began to stretch—arms, shoulders, spine. My body remembered before my mind did: the way Mama Laveau had made me hold still for hours, feeling the water move before daring to move with it.

Crazy old woman. Or perhaps eccentric was kinder. She always spoke in riddles, always talked to me like a lost stray. Though in truth, that’s exactly what I’d been—lost when Ilvermorny cast me out, lost to the No-Maj world my mother would have condemned me to. Catching that glimpse of her that day on my way to my school, gliding through the bayou without oar or wand, had been the start of my redemption. None of her cryptic talk or swamp-born theories could ever dull my fondness for her.

Though there was one theory of hers I was thinking of now.

Mama Laveau used to say that water held spirits—that it remembered everything that had ever touched it. And wasn’t that what I was seeing here? Memories—even if not my own? Perhaps it was a long shot, but maybe the water could give me the answers I was searching for.

I knelt and reached out, palm hovering just above the lake. A thin film of essence hummed against my skin, the faintest tug like static before a storm. I drew my fingers together slowly, coaxing the pull upward, shaping it with thought rather than force. The water obeyed, rising in a trembling sphere that quivered in the cold air. I leaned closer, searching for any sign that it could actually remember.

Nothing. Only my own blurred reflection gazing back at me.

“Why do I keep believing this stuff?” I muttered.

I exhaled, let the sphere sag between my hands before hardening my focus. Cold spread through my fingertips, threading into the water until it stiffened. The sphere cracked, fractured, and blossomed into jagged shards. I twisted my wrist; the shards lengthened into slender spikes that glittered faintly as they caught the light. With a sharp flick, I sent them whistling toward the bank. They struck the earth one after another—thud, thud, thud—biting deep into the mud before melting into thin rivulets.

I shook out my hands, breath clouding in the air, and turned down the shoreline at a jog that quickened with each stride. Running was easier—simpler—than trying to read meaning in still water. The rhythm of my feet against the wet earth grounded me, each step a pulse of focus through muscle and breath. Strength of body meant control of essence; Mama Laveau had drilled that into me early, and she’d been right.

Which of my masters would know what this is? Dreams that weren’t mine, memories bleeding through like cracks in glass. I doubted Silas or Anik could help—their teachings were rooted in the physical, not the mind or spirit. Pilar would have an opinion, of course, but not one I cared to hear even on my best day.

That left Mama Laveau and Greaves. And while the thought of reaching out to the former brought a spark of warmth, I knew it would accomplish little beyond what I’d just done. Greaves, though… he was an academic—the closest any of my mentors had come to teaching me how to walk the border between mind and soul. It would be best to start with him.

I sighed, breath curling white in the cool dawn air. Honestly, any of them might know something useful—or none of them at all. Perhaps I was limiting myself by not sending letters to each of them. But how many poor owls was I willing to send across the Atlantic?

The first touch of sunrise brushed the lake in pale gold. My body was warm now—heartbeat steady, breath even and controlled. When I finished the lap around the shore, I matched my breathing to the gentle rhythm of the waves and moved into drills—balance, flow, breathwork—watching the light climb higher across the lake and trying not to think of a pair of green eyes that weren’t my own.

By the time I slowed to a stop, the sun was fully up. My pulse still drummed in my ears, strong and sure, the air sharp against my skin. Sweat cooled along my neck as I bent to catch my breath, watching the gold on the water deepen with every passing moment.

The day was properly awake now—sun cresting the hills, birds stirring in the trees. I exhaled, brushing damp hair from my face. If I didn’t head back now, I’d either be late or show up to class looking like I’d wrestled a kelpie.

The stone steps leading up to the castle were slick with dew, the walls ahead still veiled in the last traces of mist. As I climbed, the air shifted—warmer, brighter, alive with the hum of waking magic. By the time I slipped through the castle doors, the chill had softened into a pleasant warmth.

The halls were still mostly empty, carrying only the faint rustle of the castle waking—a distant clang, a whisper of wings, the low hum of enchantments stretching themselves awake. I was already thinking about a shower and the teacup—coffee cup?—waiting on my vanity when movement caught my eye at the landing near my door.

The door across the corridor opened just as I reached the top step. The man of my dreams—quite literally—swept into view, robes whispering against stone, his gaze fixed either on me or the stairs below.

I straightened, swiping a few damp strands from my forehead. His gaze flicked over me—sharp, assessing. For a heartbeat, I thought he might actually let me pass in silence. Of course he didn’t.

“Early start, Professor Winters?” His voice was level but tight, like a held breath. “Or do you make a habit of assaulting the grounds before sunrise?”

For a ridiculous half-second, I wondered if he’d somehow seen me at the lake. Then I caught the faint curl of his mouth and realized he was only commenting on my state, not my whereabouts.

“Just training,” I said, hoping I didn’t smell as bad as I apparently looked.

He made a quiet, dismissive sound. “Physical exertion before breakfast. How... invigorating. Personally, I prefer not to enter my classroom smelling of effort.”

Lovely invention, this thing called a shower, I was tempted to say, eyeing his unkempt hair. Perhaps you should try one.

I kept the retort to myself and offered a faint, practiced smile instead. “It keeps the body sharp. You might be surprised how useful that can be—if you’d ever care to join me sometime.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. Horror flickered through me at the image of him actually taking me up on it—black robes and all, jogging grimly around the lake.

His mouth twitched—whether amusement or disdain, I couldn’t tell. “I prefer to exercise my intellect, Professor. It’s rather less... damp.”

I exhaled through my nose, conceding the round. “Of course. Have a good morning, Professor.”

He moved past me toward the stairs, robes whispering against stone. The thought of actually training with him made me cringe, but I couldn’t deny it would be nice to have an excuse to pick his brain—to see, maybe, if he’d been having the same kind of dreams I had.

My fingers brushed the door handle. The idea struck so suddenly it made me still.

“Professor,” I called out before I could lose my nerve.

He paused on the stairs and turned, one brow already lifted in suspicion. I shifted to face him fully, pressing my back against the door as if the solid wood could steady me.

“I was wondering—” My voice caught, so I tried again, lighter this time. “Is it too late for me to request that tour you mentioned? This place is a bit more sprawling than I expected, and I’m... out of my element.”

The words felt awkward leaving my lips. So much for never letting Snape find out.

His expression barely shifted, but a trace of irony colored his tone. “I believe you said—”

I could see the refusal forming already, so I forced the words out before he could finish. “I’ve gotten myself lost twice in the past two days. The first was right after I refused your earlier offer, and the second was literally just last night. I may be proud, but I’m not foolish. So yes—if you’re still willing, I’d appreciate the help before I end up wandering somewhere I shouldn’t.”

He regarded me in silence, the torchlight catching a faint glint in his eyes. Whatever response he’d meant to give seemed to stall; when he finally spoke, his tone was measured. “We’ve not the time this morning.”

“True,” I allowed, forcing a small, rueful smile. “But you came to my classroom Monday during my free period, which means you must also have yours then. Last period, isn’t it? And it’s Wednesday, so it should be free today.” I folded my arms loosely. “We could go then.”

A faint narrowing of his eyes betrayed his annoyance at being cornered, though he said nothing at first. The silence stretched long enough that I almost regretted pressing.

Almost.

“At least you admit the obvious,” he said at last. “Hogwarts is too vast for you to stumble through on your own. I was beginning to wonder how many circles you’d walk before surrendering.”

“Lucky for me, then, to have you to prevent that reality.” I kept my tone carefully polite, though every instinct begged for something sharper.

He turned away as if already dismissing the matter. “Very well. Last period. Do try not to get lost before then.”

His footsteps faded down the stairwell, swallowed by the castle’s stillness. I stood there for a moment, staring at the space he’d left behind, unsure whether I’d just out-maneuvered him—or walked straight into a trap of my own design.

Either way, I thought, slipping inside and closing the door behind me, I’d have my answer by last period.