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If there was one thing Annie Moon had learned by sixteen, it was that people expected her to be something.
A Moon — therefore, elegant, clever, and definitely Slytherin.
But Hogwarts had decided otherwise, sorting her into Gryffindor and turning her family dinners into a comedy of disapproving coughs and tight smiles.
Her parents, bless them, tried to be supportive. But her aunts, cousins, and grandmother had opinions — whispered ones that slithered between words like disgrace and misplaced.
So Annie built walls.
Perfect posture, calm tone, top of every class. She smiled when appropriate, but not too much.
No one could hurt you if you didn’t let them close enough.
Until winter break brought snow heavier than Hogwarts had seen in years — and Jo Woochan.
-
Woochan had been born in East London, in a small flat where the walls were thin, food was shared, and laughter came in abundance. His parents, Muggles entirely, had raised him with warmth and a confused optimism that he might be normal. He wasn’t.
Magic pulsed through his veins as insistently as the London rain, and Hogwarts had accepted him gratefully, if a little cautiously.
At fifteen, he was already a Gryffindor hero: a Quidditch beater with a sharp tongue and a laugh that could rattle suits of armor. He had friends everywhere — people who loved him because he was impossible to ignore.
Annie had noticed him. How could she not? The Gryffindor common room practically vibrated when he walked in. But she had never spoken to him.
He belonged to a world she only occasionally observed from behind the frosted glass of her perfection. He had the freedom of a comet; she had the precision of a clock.
Parallel lives, coexisting without collision — until the snow came.
-
The corridors were nearly empty that afternoon. Hogwarts seemed muted under the weight of heavy snow, the torches flickering softly against walls white with frost. Annie, wrapped in her emerald scarf, had been trudging to the Astronomy Tower to study, preferring solitude to the forced politeness of family letters and enchanted holiday cheer.
She pushed open the heavy door, expecting silence, but found him.
Woochan stood by the railing, broom leaning casually against the stonework, scarf fluttering like a flag in the icy wind. Snowflakes caught in his hair and eyelashes, tiny crystals twinkling in the dying sunlight.
“Oh — hey,” he said, startled. “Didn’t think anyone else was still here.”
Annie tightened her grip on her book, instinctively protective. “I could say the same.”
He laughed, a warm, unrestrained sound that made the cold bite of the wind less sharp. “Guess we’re both rebels, then.”
She tilted her head. “Or both antisocial.”
His laugh rang again, lighter this time. “That too.”
For a long moment, neither moved. Snow swirled around them, and the distant mountains of Hogwarts were smudged in white. The wind carried a smell of pine, old stone, and smoke from the fireplaces far below.
Then he glanced at her book. “Ancient Runes? On holiday?”
“I find comfort in structure,” she said, a note of her usual formality lacing the words.
“Structure’s good,” he said, stepping closer to lean casually on the railing. “But the best stuff doesn’t follow rules.”
Annie blinked, considering him. There was something irrepressible in his presence, like the sort of magic she hadn’t studied in books — the kind that made a room warmer, brighter, alive.
Before she could respond, he grinned. “Cocoa? I’ve got a stash in the common room.”
Her eyebrows arched. “You… brought cocoa to the Astronomy Tower?”
“Of course. Gryffindor survival instincts,” he said, voice teasing but earnest.
Against her better judgment, she laughed. It startled her, too — a soft, accidental sound that fluttered in her chest. But she didn't hate it.
-
After that first meeting, Woochan started appearing wherever she studied.
At breakfast: a cup of cocoa slid across the table. “Can I sit?” he asked.
In the library: he plopped across from her, parchment untouched. “Can I copy your brilliance?”
In the snow-covered courtyard: “Can I show you something?” — before flinging a perfectly aimed snowball at her.
Each “Can I?” was gentle, careful. Every time, it brushed at the walls she had built around herself, smoothing edges she hadn’t realized had hardened.
She refused sometimes. Sometimes, she caught herself smiling at the audacity.
He asked softly, persistently, never demanding. And slowly, the laughter came more easily, the conversations lingered, and the walls began to crumble.
-
One afternoon, he asked if he could teach her how to truly feel flying — not just ride a broom, but soar.
The sky was a pale winter blue, the wind sharp against her cheeks. The snow piled in soft layers, the castle towers rising from it like white giants.
“You’re showing off,” she said flatly, hands tucked into her gloves.
“Efficiency’s boring,” he replied, grinning.
She crossed her arms. “Flying is physics, not feelings.”
“Physics doesn’t make your hair stand on end,” he said. Then he tilted his head. “Can I?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Can you what?”
“Can I hold your hand while you get on the broom?”
It was ridiculous — utterly, maddeningly ridiculous — and yet, she found herself saying, “Fine.”
His hand was warm against hers, rough from broom handle calluses. She felt her heartbeat spike as he guided her onto the broom, positioning her hands around the handle.
“Don’t think,” he whispered. “Just let go a little.”
She rolled her eyes, but when they kicked off, she felt the world fall away. Cold air bit at her cheeks, the castle shrinking beneath them. The wind sang through her hair. And for the first time in years, she laughed without caution, without expectation.
Woochan’s laughter mingled with hers, ringing clear in the frosty air.
When they landed, breathless and cheeks pink, she found herself smiling at him — genuinely, without artifice.
“That,” she said, “was wonderful.”
“Reckless,” he teased.
She shook her head. “Wonderful.”
He blinked at her in surprise, then smiled, soft this time. “I’ll take that.”
-
That evening, an owl arrived with a letter sealed in the Moon crest. Her extended family’s polite disdain lay pressed into the green wax.
Proper breeding, proper composure, proper house…
Her hand trembled slightly as she read and reread the words. She could feel her carefully constructed mask cracking.
Woochan, noticing her distraction from across the common room, approached. “Bad news?”
She folded the letter carefully. “Expected news.”
“Can I stay here?” he asked quietly, sitting beside her by the fire.
The question, simple as it was, landed like a spell. She looked up, eyes softening. “Yes. Please.”
So he stayed. They didn’t speak much, but the silence was comfortable — the crackle of the fire, the soft tapping of snow against windows, the gentle rhythm of breathing in sync.
Her head rested against his shoulder eventually. His heartbeat was steady. Her hands were warm in his. And for the first time, she didn’t feel the need to be perfect.
-
The Hogwarts Express carried the students back in January. The Great Hall roared with life again — laughter, clattering plates, owls swooping.
His Quidditch teammates spotted him immediately. “Oi, Woochan! How was your romantic castle getaway?”
“I studied,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“Sure,” one teased, looking toward Annie.
She met his gaze across the hall and smiled — soft, unguarded, private.
He grinned back. It was enough to make the air between them hum.
And sometimes, when they walked together through the snow-dusted courtyard, he’d glance sideways and ask quietly,
“Can I hold your hand?”
She’d smile — the real one, that only he ever saw — and reply,
“You always can.”