Lennon had never thought of herself as someone who mentored others. She was loud, impulsive, a bit reckless on a good day, and frequently at odds with school rules—particularly the ones involving corridors after curfew and the exact number of dungbombs considered "excessive." But then again, fate never asked before assigning responsibilities. It just handed them to her and expected her to carry them like a firecracker with a short fuse.
So, when Professor McGonagall quietly pulled her aside in early October and said, "Lennon, I believe a few of our new first-years could use a bit of… Gryffindor spirit," Lennon had nodded solemnly and said, "So you want me to corrupt them early. Got it."
McGonagall's lips twitched, but she didn't argue.
That was how Lennon ended up with three constant shadows: Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
At first, it was simple things—showing them where the best window ledges were for stargazing, how to sneak dessert out of the Great Hall unnoticed, or which suit of armor outside the fourth-floor girls' lavatory had a tendency to yell compliments at passing students. But soon, it became more than that.
Harry looked up to her in the way only someone used to being alone could. Ron followed her like she held the answers to every rule worth breaking. And Hermione—brilliant, eager Hermione—challenged her every step, asking why, how, and "what on earth made you think that was a good idea?"
They were chaotic.
They were loud.
They were hers.
⸻
"You realize you've basically adopted them," Fred said one night as he watched Lennon yank Harry out of a trick stair.
"They're like stray Nifflers," George added. "Cute, a bit shiny-eyed, probably dangerous if unsupervised."
Lennon smirked. "I prefer to think of them as investments. Give them three years, and we'll have a new generation of rule-benders."
"Our legacy," Fred said proudly.
"You say that like it's a good thing," Oliver muttered from nearby, flipping through his Quidditch playbook. "One Weasley twin is enough. Two is reckless. Three? That's how Hogwarts burns down."
"You say that like it hasn't almost happened before," Lennon shot back.
Oliver gave her a long-suffering look, but his eyes twinkled. "Just don't recruit Harry to fly without a broom again."
"That was one time!"
⸻
Lennon's bond with Oliver was different than her friendship with the twins. Where Fred and George were chaos incarnate, Oliver was discipline wrapped in Quidditch gear. He was serious, focused, and talked about game formations in his sleep. And yet, Lennon understood him.
They shared a passion for flying, a competitive streak a mile wide, and an unspoken loyalty to their house.
After practice one evening, they sat in the stands while the sky turned golden.
"You think Harry's got it in him?" Oliver asked quietly.
Lennon nodded. "He's got the instincts. And the guts. He just needs someone to believe in him."
Oliver glanced sideways at her. "Like you?"
She shrugged. "Someone's gotta make sure he doesn't go splat his first game."
Oliver smiled. "You're a good influence."
"Don't let Fred hear you say that."
⸻
Life at Hogwarts moved fast. The castle shifted around them like a living creature, always full of surprises. Peeves threw ink bottles from chandeliers. The staircases changed just to spite people. Snape remained a walking cloud of misery.
And through it all, Lennon kept her small group close.
She helped Hermione study for Charms.
She taught Ron how to actually hold his wand in a duel.
She walked Harry to the Quidditch pitch the morning of his first practice and sat in the stands the whole time, clapping louder than anyone.
Even louder than Oliver.
And Mattheo?
He remained an enigma.
Sometimes she saw him in the library, hunched over thick books that looked more curse than content. Sometimes she passed him in the dungeons, his gaze unreadable, his silence heavy.
They hadn't spoken since detention.
But when their eyes met, it was like something tethered between them. Something unspoken. A gravity she didn't know how to resist.
⸻
Halloween at Hogwarts was a spectacle. Floating pumpkins, dancing skeletons, and enchanted bats filled the Great Hall. Fred and George had enchanted the dessert platters to scream whenever someone reached for a cupcake.
"You did what to the treacle tart?" Lennon asked, watching a second-year shriek as their pastry tried to nibble back.
"Innovation, Lennon," Fred said proudly.
"It's festive," George added.
Lennon turned to Oliver. "If they get expelled, we act surprised."
Oliver groaned.
It was during dessert that chaos struck.
Quirrell came sprinting into the Great Hall, his turban askew, and gasped, "T-troll! In the dungeons! Thought you ought to know."
Panic erupted. Screams. Shouts. Students jumping over tables.
McGonagall tried to restore order. Dumbledore shot off purple sparks.
But Lennon wasn't paying attention to any of that.
Because Hermione wasn't in the Hall.
Neither was Ron.
Nor Harry.
"Bloody hell," she muttered.
"What?" Fred asked.
"They're not here."
George paled. "You don't think—?"
Lennon was already moving.
She darted through the crowds, heart thudding, wand clutched tight. Her legs carried her faster than thought. Down the moving staircases. Past portraits yelling warnings. Into the dungeons.
She rounded a corner just in time to see the last moments—Harry scrambling over a troll's back, Ron knocking it out cold with a levitating club, Hermione looking shaken but alive.
"What the hell are you three doing?" Lennon shouted, storming toward them.
"We were—"
"No! Don't even! That thing could've squashed you flat! Hermione, why didn't you come back to the Hall? Ron, you almost died! Harry, YOU—"
She stopped.
Harry was bleeding slightly.
She walked over, grabbed a piece of cloth from her robe, and pressed it to his forehead.
Her voice softened. "You scared me."
Harry looked up at her. "We're okay."
Lennon exhaled slowly. "Yeah. You are. Just… try to stay that way."
⸻
The next day, Lennon received a rare compliment from McGonagall.
"Your presence of mind helped avert a potential tragedy, Miss McCauley."
Lennon blinked. "Are you… praising me?"
"Don't get used to it."
Fred and George made her a badge: Honorary Troll Slayer.
She wore it proudly.
Even Oliver smiled.
But that night, as she sat alone near the Black Lake, the moon high above her, someone stepped into the clearing.
Mattheo.
He didn't say anything.
Just sat beside her.
After a moment, he said, "You care about them."
"Of course I do."
"Even though they're reckless. Foolish. Loud."
Lennon smirked. "Takes one to know one."
He was silent for a long time.
Then he said, almost gently, "You're not what people think."
She looked at him.
"Neither are you," she replied.
And for a while, they just sat there.
Two opposites.
Maybe not so opposite after all.