The air was thick with tension, rain hammering down in relentless sheets as the Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw Quidditch match surged into chaos. Thunder cracked overhead. Players zipped across the sky, reduced to silhouettes against the stormy clouds. Below, the stands buzzed with excitement and nerves. Everyone was watching Harry.
Everyone except Lennon.
Her focus was everywhere—on the Quaffle, on her teammates, and most of all, on the strange, low chill that had settled in her bones long before the clouds had gathered. Something was off.
She circled above, scanning the pitch like a hawk, when it happened.
A sudden, biting cold crashed over the stadium like a wave. The screaming crowd dimmed. The rain slowed. The world stilled.
And then the shadows appeared.
Dark, floating figures glided over the pitch—tall, cloaked, featureless. Dementors.
A scream tore through the sky—Harry's broom veered out of control.
"No—!" Lennon dove.
But she was too late.
Harry's broom spiraled down in a sickening drop, and the chill that spread from the Dementors froze Lennon mid-dive. Her fingers trembled. Her mind flooded with darkness, old memories—echoes of pain she hadn't faced in years. She heard her mother's voice again, cold and sharp. Heard herself, younger, crying out—
No.
She blinked hard and shoved it away. With everything she had, she pushed through the despair. Her body fought her—shaking and freezing—but she locked onto Harry's falling figure. Her dive was reckless, faster than she'd ever flown before.
She caught him.
Just barely.
Their bodies crashed into the muddy pitch in a heap. The sound was deafening—bones and earth and panic. She blacked out for a few seconds.
When she opened her eyes, she was flat on her back, the sky spinning above her. Madam Hooch was yelling. Someone was calling her name. Harry was beside her, unmoving.
The Dementors were gone. Dumbledore had arrived and driven them off with a burst of silver light from his wand. But the chill remained. The pitch was quiet.
Lennon sat up slowly, ignoring the pain. Her arm felt twisted. Her ribs burned. Her head rang.
Harry groaned, still dazed, but alive.
Madam Pomfrey descended on them, scolding everyone in sight.
"Dangerous creatures! They shouldn't have been anywhere near the pitch!"
⸻
They were taken to the Hospital Wing. Lennon was given a chunk of chocolate the size of her fist and told to rest. Harry was out cold for nearly an hour. The rest of the team had crowded in, even Oliver, fuming with frustration but worry written all over his face.
"I don't care about the bloody Snitch," he muttered to Lennon quietly. "You're both alive. That's what matters."
She nodded silently, still trembling.
⸻
Later that night, long after they'd been released and the castle had gone quiet, Lennon walked alone through the corridor near the Great Hall, heading back toward Gryffindor Tower. Her robes were still damp, and her bones still ached, but the worst of it had passed—at least, physically.
"Lennon!"
She turned sharply, catching sight of three figures lingering in the shadows beneath a torch-lit alcove. Mattheo. Theodore. Lorenzo.
They weren't supposed to be anywhere near Gryffindor Tower. But they'd waited—clearly.
She stopped, tension in her shoulders immediately rising.
"You shouldn't be here," she said quietly, voice cold.
"We know," Mattheo said, stepping forward a little. "But we needed to see if you were alright."
"You almost died out there," Theodore added, eyes shadowed with concern.
Lorenzo nodded. "We saw it. The Dementors—Merlin, Lennon… you caught Potter midair."
She crossed her arms. "Why do you care?"
Mattheo looked at her like she'd just slapped him. "Because we do."
She stared at them for a long moment, heart hammering. There were too many feelings she hadn't sorted through. About the summer. About the kiss she and Mattheo had shared. About being ignored on the platform. About the distance they'd all suddenly created when term started.
"I don't need your concern," she said finally. "I needed it weeks ago. Not now."
Theodore opened his mouth, but she didn't wait. She turned on her heel and walked away, the echo of her boots lost in the silence behind her.
None of them followed.
⸻
At dinner the next night, the Great Hall buzzed with the usual chatter and laughter. Gryffindor's table was loudest of all. Ron was dramatically retelling the moment Harry fell, gesturing wildly as he mimicked the swoop of the broomstick and the way Lennon had dived after him.
"And then—whoosh! She catches him. I swear, like inches before they hit the ground!"
"She's mental," George whispered with admiration.
"Bloody brilliant, though," Fred added.
Lennon was trying not to smile when Ron added with a laugh, "Shame Malfoy missed it—still pretending he's too injured to play. Buckbeak barely scratched him!"
The whole Gryffindor table erupted in laughter.
Even Lennon chuckled—until she caught movement across the room.
At the Slytherin table, Mattheo, Lorenzo, and Theodore were watching her.
Not mocking.
Just watching.
But she didn't look back.
Later that night
The halls of Hogwarts were quieter after curfew. Few dared roam them, especially with Dementors posted at the gates. But Lennon didn't care. She needed to see someone who'd understand—someone who knew what those creatures did to a person when they got too close.
She knocked once on the door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts office.
It creaked open before she could lower her hand.
Remus Lupin looked exhausted as usual, sleeves rolled up, a half-finished essay marked beside a cup of steaming tea.
"Ah," he said gently. "I wondered if you'd come."
She stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. He gestured for her to sit across from him.
For a long moment, she said nothing. Neither did he.
Then—
"They were after Sirius," she murmured. "Weren't they?"
Remus nodded slowly. "That's what Dumbledore thinks. He told the Ministry not to station them here, but… they didn't listen."
Lennon's hands tightened in her lap. "I felt it, when they came. The cold. The… memories. It was worse than I remembered."
Remus leaned back. "They make you relive your worst moments. For someone like you… that's a heavy thing to carry."
Silence again.
Then she looked up at him. "You really think he did it? Sirius?"
His expression didn't change. Not much.
But his voice was soft when he said, "I don't know anymore."
Lennon didn't respond. She didn't have to.
He knew what she was thinking.
She didn't believe Sirius Black was a murderer. And neither, if Remus was being honest with himself, did he—not really.