The day after Ron's Howler incident passed quickly, but the tension that hovered in the corridors of Hogwarts lingered. Whispers of attacks and something darker lurking in the castle's depths filled the air with unease. But for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, the game had to go on.
Lennon stood at the edge of the Quidditch pitch, her broom tucked under her arm as Oliver barked instructions at the team.
"We'll run the feint drill one more time, and I want it tight! Slytherin's got Flint playing dirty this season, and I don't want anyone taken out because they weren't paying attention. Got it?"
"Aye, Captain," Fred and George called in unison.
Lennon rolled her eyes affectionately as she mounted her broom. The twins were incorrigible—but damn good Beaters. As they took off into the air, the sun glinted off their red and gold robes, and for a moment, the world below seemed to disappear.
The Slytherins, however, were waiting.
Down on the other end of the pitch, the green-robed team stood smugly, brooms slung lazily over their shoulders. Marcus Flint, the burly Slytherin captain, grinned like a shark watching prey.
Draco stood beside him, new to the team as Seeker—thanks to his father's generous donation of Nimbus 2001s. He was twirling his broom between his fingers with an air of practiced nonchalance.
The Gryffindors circled overhead once before descending, Oliver clearly trying to keep his composure.
"We reserved the pitch for today," he said, stepping forward.
Flint crossed his arms. "Funny, so did we."
Lennon hovered slightly behind Oliver, eyes flicking toward the Slytherin trio who stood just outside the boundaries of the pitch—Mattheo, Theodore, and Lorenzo. None of them were on the team, but their presence was palpable.
Theodore offered Lennon a small nod. Lorenzo gave her a grin. Mattheo's eyes, however, never left hers. There was something there—something restrained, like a storm bottled behind pale green eyes.
Draco, meanwhile, had turned toward the group. "Oh, look, the Mudblood's here too," he sneered, nodding toward Hermione who stood on the sidelines with Ron and Harry.
Before Ron could lunge forward, Lennon was already between them.
"Watch your mouth, Malfoy," she said coldly.
"Or what?" Draco retorted. "You'll lecture me? Or ask your little admirer to hex me for you?"
His gaze flicked briefly toward Mattheo, who rolled his eyes but said nothing.
"Let's not pretend you're brave enough to pick a fight you can't win," Lennon replied coolly, stepping back. "Go on—run back to Daddy."
The tension in the air crackled like lightning. Lorenzo chuckled under his breath, and even Theodore raised an eyebrow.
Flint finally stepped forward. "Enough. We're here to train, not trade insults."
Oliver huffed. "Fine. We'll share. Half the pitch."
Practice resumed with uneasy detachment. Gryffindors took one side, Slytherins the other, and every pass, every dive, every feint felt like a silent declaration of war.
Mattheo lingered near the edge of the stands, watching Lennon move through the drills with grace and fire. She moved like she was born to fly. Theodore leaned against the railing beside him.
"You know," he said casually, "if you're going to keep pretending you don't care about her, you should stop staring."
Mattheo didn't answer.
Lorenzo appeared on his other side with two pumpkin pasties. He handed one to Mattheo and bit into the other.
"Still don't get why you don't just tell her," he mumbled, mouth half-full.
"Because it's complicated," Mattheo muttered.
"She'd probably still like you anyway," Lorenzo said. "You're both emotionally unavailable and carry unspeakable trauma. It's practically poetic."
Theodore smirked. "Can't argue with that."
Down on the pitch, the Gryffindor practice wrapped up. Lennon touched down, brushing hair out of her face as she walked toward the trio.
"Come to judge my flying?"
"Admire," Lorenzo corrected with a grin.
"Monitor," Theodore added.
Mattheo's expression didn't change, but his voice was soft. "Protect."
Lennon blinked, caught off-guard.
"It's getting worse in the castle," she said. "The attacks. The fear."
"I know," Mattheo replied. "And I know what it feels like to be hunted for something you didn't choose."
She met his eyes. "You mean your father."
He didn't deny it.
The wind picked up slightly, and Lennon crossed her arms against the chill. "Whatever's happening in the castle, I don't think it's random. Someone's targeting Muggle-borns. And I think it's connected to the Chamber."
Theodore and Lorenzo exchanged glances.
"You're not wrong," Theo murmured. "But if you keep digging, Lennon, you're going to end up a target too."
Mattheo took a step forward. "Then we make sure she's not alone."
Lennon looked between the three of them—her unlikely allies in a school that seemed to be crumbling from within. With Quidditch, classes, and now the dark shadow of the past threatening to rise again, nothing at Hogwarts felt safe anymore.
But together, maybe, just maybe, they had a fighting chance.