The first full day of classes dawned crisp and grey, the sky over Hogwarts veiled in silver clouds. Lennon woke to the sound of the castle stretching around her—pipes groaning, portraits muttering sleepily, and the steady rustle of students preparing for the day.
It was strange being back. Stranger still, after the quiet of her flat and the company she'd kept over the summer. She'd grown used to mornings with Lorenzo stealing her toast and Mattheo leaning against the windowsill with half a smile and tired eyes.
Now they were just ghosts in her periphery.
At breakfast, the Gryffindor table buzzed with fresh timetables and speculation over their new teachers. Lennon sat farther down the table than Harry and his year, listening to the usual chatter but keeping mostly to herself. She noticed Mattheo walk into the Great Hall with the Slytherins, flanked by Theodore and Lorenzo. He didn't look her way. None of them did.
She pretended not to care.
The morning passed uneventfully. Ancient Runes and Charms were both manageable, though Lennon couldn't help but notice that the cold from the previous night—the one that clung to her bones ever since the Dementor's arrival—hadn't quite left. It lurked in the corners, subtle but present.
By mid-afternoon, word began to spread through the Gryffindor common room like wildfire.
"Harry Potter fainted in Defence Against the Dark Arts!"
Lennon frowned from her spot by the window, book forgotten in her lap. She stood and made her way down toward the younger Gryffindors, catching the tail end of Seamus Finnegan's retelling.
"There was a Boggart, right? And it turned into a Dementor for Harry."
"He fainted," Lavender whispered, her tone teetering between concern and gossip. "Right in front of everyone."
"No shame in that," Lennon cut in calmly, folding her arms. Her voice, though soft, held weight. "Dementors affect people differently. It's not weakness—just… pain."
The younger students quieted a little, uncertain. Lavender nodded awkwardly.
"Did Lupin say anything?" Lennon asked.
"He gave Harry some chocolate," said Ron, appearing behind her with a defensive scowl. "And made sure he was okay."
Hermione added, "He was brilliant, actually. He knew exactly how to handle it. He even stepped in before Harry had to face it directly again."
Lennon smiled faintly. "That sounds like him."
"What do you mean?" Harry asked, squinting up at her.
"Remus taught me a long time ago what Boggarts were. Before Hogwarts, even," she said, a touch distant. "He and Sirius both… helped me face my own."
She didn't say what hers had been. And none of them asked.
⸻
That evening, the older years gathered in the common room with less excitement than usual. Homework had already begun to pile up, and the weight of the Dementors stationed around the castle had settled into everyone's mood like fog.
Lennon sat by the fire, her legs tucked under her as she read a Defense textbook she'd borrowed from the restricted section last year. Her fingers absently traced the spine, but her mind was elsewhere.
She could still see the way Mattheo had looked at her the night before they left her flat—soft, hesitant, like he was holding something too delicate. And now? Silence. Avoidance.
It stung more than she wanted to admit.
From across the room, Oliver Wood caught her eye and raised a brow. She gave him a faint smile and a shake of her head.
She was fine.
Really.
Just… tired.
⸻
Meanwhile, in the Slytherin common room, the fire burned green and low. Mattheo sat with a quill in his hand and parchment in front of him—but he hadn't written a word.
His thoughts kept circling the same memory: Lennon, pressed against him in the dark warmth of her flat. The way she'd touched his face like she wasn't afraid of what he could be.
He knew ignoring her hurt.
But his father would never accept her. None of their families would.
"Mate," Lorenzo muttered, nudging his boot under the table, "you're brooding like a lovesick poet."
"Shut up."
Theodore glanced up from his book. "You could at least talk to her."
"And say what?" Mattheo asked bitterly. "Sorry I acted like a stranger because my family would kill me if they knew I kissed a Gryffindor?"
The room fell silent.
"Pretty much," Theodore said flatly, flipping a page.
Mattheo sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. The fire flickered, casting shadows across his features. He hated this. The silence. The pretending. The distance.
And yet, he didn't know how to do anything else.
⸻
Up in Gryffindor Tower, Lennon tucked herself beneath her blanket that night with the sound of the wind rattling the windows. She stared at the ceiling for a long time before pulling out a small, worn photograph from her trunk.
Her father in his Auror robes.
She traced the edges gently with her thumb.
No Boggart, no Malfoy, no silence from boys who should know better—none of that could ever be worse than what she'd already survived.
But damn if it didn't still hurt.