The rain came and went in scattered sheets, turning the London streets below Lennon's window into shimmering rivers of reflection. A soft breeze carried the scent of rain and stone through the tiny flat, rustling the lace curtains and making the wind chimes on her bookshelf tinkle like distant bells.
It was peaceful. The kind of peace Lennon hadn't realized she'd been craving.
A few days had passed since the boys first showed up on her doorstep. Since Remus had walked through her door like a comforting ghost from a warmer life. Since the silence of her flat had been replaced with the soft sound of company—of laughter, of half-whispered jokes, and sometimes… just shared quiet.
She still woke up earlier than the rest.
Lorenzo had sprawled out on the couch, a blanket kicked off halfway through the night. Theodore had claimed the armchair with a fortress of pillows. Mattheo slept on a transfigured cot near the window, always the lightest sleeper of the three.
Lennon tiptoed around them now, kettle boiling for tea and a stack of letters on the kitchen counter waiting to be opened.
Because for some reason, everyone had decided to write.
⸻
The first letter was from Ginny.
"I don't know what I'd do without you," it said in neat, looping handwriting. "Thank you for believing me. I still feel… heavy, sometimes. But it's lighter knowing you're out there."
Lennon smiled gently and tucked the letter aside.
⸻
The second was from Oliver Wood, written in bold, slanted ink.
"You better not skip out on Quidditch next year. Gryffindor needs your precision. Besides, who else is going to keep the twins from launching bludgers at our own team?"
He'd included a photo—him in the backyard, throwing a Quaffle into the air while one of his younger siblings tried to steal it from behind. Lennon laughed quietly and pinned the photo to the small corkboard beside her bookshelves.
⸻
Then came a letter from Harry, short and straightforward, but with that unmistakable awkward sincerity only he could manage.
"I hope you're doing okay. I wanted to say thank you. For staying, for fighting, for being… you. Hope to see you soon."
She blinked a few times, folded it carefully, and placed it into a keepsake box she hadn't touched in years.
⸻
There were letters from Hermione's parents, too—sent through magical post after a chat with McGonagall. They thanked her for watching over their daughter. For writing to them when Hermione couldn't.
And then, of course, came the chaos.
⸻
Three bright red envelopes came all at once from Fred and George—each more ridiculous than the last.
The first one screamed:
"YOU LEFT US WITH ONLY RON FOR ENTERTAINMENT, AND HE'S A NIGHTMARE!"
The second added:
"Expect prank retaliation when school starts again. Also, Mum says hi."
The third simply exploded in confetti and played a magical recording of them singing an absurd ballad titled: "Ode to Lennon, Slayer of Basilisks, and Queen of Quiet Sass."
Confetti still lingered in the corners of the flat.
⸻
Lennon leaned against the counter now, a mug of lavender tea warming her hands, eyes skimming over the last unopened envelope. It didn't have a return name, but the handwriting was familiar.
Inside was a small, pressed flower.
And a single line, in clean, elegant script.
"You make the storm feel softer."
She didn't have to wonder who it was from.
⸻
Later that day, the boys began to stir—Theo groaning as he stretched, Lorenzo stealing toast from her plate, Mattheo quietly folding the blankets before sitting beside her on the floor.
"You got a lot of letters this morning," Theo said, rubbing his eyes.
"She's popular now," Lorenzo teased, tossing a grape into his mouth. "Can't go defeating ancient dark artifacts without collecting a fan club."
"I don't have a fan club," Lennon muttered.
Mattheo looked at her, eyes lingering. "Maybe not a fan club. Just… people who see you."
She looked down at her tea, cheeks a little warm.
⸻
That afternoon, they wandered the streets of the nearby market. Lorenzo bought a ridiculous pair of enchanted sunglasses. Theo haggled with a vendor over a bag of lemon sherbets. Mattheo found a weathered, secondhand poetry book and gifted it to her without saying much.
They returned to the flat just as golden sunlight spilled through the windows, and Lennon curled up by the windowseat, the poetry book in her lap, her eyes closed.
For the first time in a long while, she didn't feel lost.
She felt found.