The week after the troll incident passed in a blur. The castle buzzed with rumors about the first years who had faced down a mountain-sized creature, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione—though trying their best to act normal—had earned a strange mix of awe and concern. Lennon had never seen McGonagall so tight-lipped or Snape so stormy-eyed.
Lennon stuck closer than ever, walking them to classes, throwing her arm around Hermione in solidarity when whispers got too loud, and offering up Fred and George's newest prank sweets to cheer up Ron after a particularly grueling Potions class.
But Hogwarts didn't slow down just because students almost got flattened by a troll. Life moved on, and new players were about to step into the spotlight.
---
It started on a particularly crisp morning. Lennon, with her scarf wrapped snugly around her neck, was heading back from flying practice with Oliver and the twins when she caught sight of Harry and Ron arguing with another student near the courtyard.
He was pale, with slicked-back blond hair, his chin tilted in that smug, infuriating way that screamed entitlement.
Draco.
Lennon had heard of him, of course—first year, Slytherin, pureblood, walked like he thought the stones should part for him. She hadn't interacted with him much, but judging by Ron's red face and Hermione's pinched expression, this wasn't a friendly chat.
"What's going on here?" she asked, stepping between them.
Draco turned toward her with a smirk. "Oh, just reminding your little Gryffindor friends where they stand."
"Which is clearly above you if you're spending this much time looking up to insult them," Lennon shot back.
Draco blinked.
Ron snorted.
"Watch yourself," Draco said, his voice quieter now, colder. "Some people don't like when their pets talk back."
Lennon's wand hand twitched, but she didn't draw it. "Funny. I was just thinking you looked like someone who buys friends. Must be exhausting always paying for loyalty."
Draco flushed.
But before he could retaliate, two older students rounded the corner—both wearing Slytherin robes and watching the situation with cool detachment.
One of them was tall and dark-eyed, with an unreadable expression and sharp cheekbones. Theodore.
The other had storm-grey eyes and a shock of tousled black hair, his robe slightly disheveled like he'd run into something—or someone—interesting. That one was Lorenzo.
And both of them flanked Mattheo.
He stood just behind them, watching the whole thing unfold with his arms crossed and his mouth set in a straight line.
Draco turned, visibly relieved.
"See? Even the upper years understand. She's just another loud Gryffindor with too many opinions."
But Lorenzo's gaze flicked to Lennon.
"Actually," he said, "I think she's interesting. Loud, yes. But interesting."
Theodore gave her a slow nod, his eyes unreadable. "Clever, too."
Draco stared at them like they'd grown second heads.
Mattheo said nothing, but Lennon saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Amusement. Maybe approval.
Draco huffed and turned on his heel, stalking off with his robes billowing.
Once he was gone, Lorenzo walked up to Lennon with a crooked grin. "Don't let him get under your skin. He thinks being born makes him important."
Lennon arched a brow. "And what makes you important, then?"
"Nothing. But I'm far more fun."
Theodore gave a soft chuckle, and Lennon realized—not all Slytherins were the same. Some were sharp without being cruel. Ambitious without being arrogant. And some, like Mattheo, remained maddeningly silent.
"Thanks," she muttered, brushing imaginary dust off her robe.
"Anytime," Theodore said, his voice calm.
Then, as suddenly as they had come, the trio turned and walked off, disappearing into the dungeons.
---
That night in the Gryffindor common room, Lennon sat in the window seat, her legs curled beneath her, watching the rain beat against the glass. Harry was asleep near the fire, Ron snoring loudly beside him. Hermione sat nearby with a book, her eyes flicking between pages and Lennon's distant expression.
"You're quiet," Hermione said softly.
"Thinking."
"About the Slytherins?"
Lennon looked at her. Hermione was too smart not to notice.
"Yeah. I guess I expected them all to be... like Draco. But they're not."
"People aren't their houses," Hermione said. "We've all got a bit of everything."
Lennon smiled faintly. "Wise words for an eleven-year-old."
Hermione flushed.
---
The next week brought their first real autumn storm. Rain lashed the windows, wind howled through the halls, and everyone huddled close under cloaks and warming charms. Fred and George, of course, chose this time to test a new product: Ever-Steaming Socks.
It did not go well.
Oliver made Lennon promise not to help them rewire the heating vents.
But between classes and chaos, Lennon found herself running into Mattheo more and more. Once in the library, where he slid a book across the table without a word—*Advanced Magical Theory.*
Once in the courtyard, where they crossed paths under a leafless tree and paused—just long enough to notice.
And once, late at night, when she was returning from dropping off chocolate frogs to Neville, she found him standing alone near the statue of the One-Eyed Witch.
"You're always out late," he said.
"You're always watching."
He tilted his head. "You're not afraid of me."
"Should I be?"
He didn't answer.
The silence between them stretched—strange, heavy, almost magnetic.
Then he said, "Draco's a fool. Don't let him rope you into his games."
"And you? What games are you playing?"
He smiled faintly. "None you'd lose."
She should've walked away.
Instead, she said, "You should come sit with us sometime. At lunch."
His expression shifted—confusion, wariness, something like hope flickering and dying all in one second.
"That's not how things work."
"Maybe they should."
Then she turned and left him standing there.
In the shadows.
With the statue.
With her words.
---