The storm had softened into a steady drizzle by the time the students entered the Great Hall, their shoes squeaking on the stone floor and cloaks damp from the rain. Candles floated above, casting golden halos of light, and the enchanted ceiling mirrored the grey sky outside with a faint rumble of distant thunder.
Lennon stepped inside with the rest of the Gryffindors, her heart tugging with both familiarity and quiet ache. Hogwarts looked the same. The ancient stone, the warm light, the smell of roasted meat and autumn spices—it was all unchanged.
But she was not.
Behind her, Mattheo, Theodore, and Lorenzo walked in with the Slytherins. Their faces were carefully blank, eyes forward. None of them looked her way.
Not since the platform.
Not since they'd pretended not to know her.
She sat down beside Ginny and Hermione at the Gryffindor table, wrapping her damp cloak tighter around her shoulders. Harry and Ron slid into their seats across from her, both looking tired and a bit pale.
"Are you okay?" Lennon asked Harry quietly, leaning forward just enough that her voice wouldn't carry.
Harry nodded, but it was unconvincing.
"He'll be fine," Ron said, nudging a chocolate frog toward Harry. "He just needs sugar. Dementors make everyone feel awful."
Everyone but Draco, it seemed.
The blond Slytherin sauntered past their table, voice dripping with glee. "Oh Potter—try not to pass out during dessert, would you? I'd hate for you to ruin the treacle tart."
Pansy Parkinson giggled behind her hand, while Crabbe and Goyle chuckled like the oversized shadows they were.
Harry's jaw clenched. Ron shot to his feet.
Before anyone could react, Lennon stood sharply, her chair scraping the floor.
"You want to talk about weakness, Malfoy?" she snapped.
"Lennon—" Ginny hissed, tugging on her sleeve.
But she didn't back down—until Oliver stepped in.
"Alright," Oliver said coolly, appearing between the tables like he'd been summoned by tension alone. "That's enough. Sit down, Malfoy. We're not playing your games tonight."
Draco curled his lip, but retreated with a muttered insult. Lennon sat slowly, her hands clenched into fists beneath the table.
"Thanks," she muttered to Oliver.
He winked and turned away just as Professor Dumbledore rose to his feet at the head table.
The hall fell silent.
"Welcome," the headmaster said, his voice warm but commanding. "To another year at Hogwarts."
His gaze swept the hall, lingering on each table in turn. His eyes sparkled behind his half-moon spectacles, though the usual twinkle seemed dimmed by something weightier.
"Before we begin our feast," he continued, "I must inform you of several important matters."
The room seemed to hold its breath.
"As many of you are no doubt aware," Dumbledore said, "our school grounds will, for the foreseeable future, be guarded by Dementors. They are stationed at every entrance, and while they are here for your protection, I must warn you: they are not to be trifled with."
A ripple of unease passed through the hall.
"Their presence is due to the recent escape of Sirius Black from Azkaban," Dumbledore said gravely. "He is considered extremely dangerous."
Lennon's breath caught. Her heart stuttered.
And under her breath—barely more than a whisper—she muttered, "He's not dangerous…"
No one heard her.
Except, maybe, Remus Lupin. His eyes, from the staff table, briefly flicked to her face. But he said nothing.
"I urge you all to exercise caution," Dumbledore went on, "stay within the grounds, and avoid any contact with the Dementors."
Harry shifted uncomfortably. Lennon could feel the way his fingers fidgeted beneath the table.
"And now," Dumbledore said, the room still tense, "I am pleased to introduce two new members of our teaching staff."
He gestured to the long table behind him, where the teachers sat.
"First, Professor Remus Lupin, who will be taking the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts."
Lennon smiled softly as Remus stood, giving a quiet, modest nod. A few students clapped half-heartedly—he looked worn and tired, with tattered robes and greying hair—but Lennon knew better than most just how kind and capable he truly was.
"And second," Dumbledore continued, "our new Care of Magical Creatures professor, Rubeus Hagrid."
Hagrid let out a loud sniffle as the students cheered, his enormous beard uivering with emotion. His eyes were suspiciously shiny as he gave a wide grin and sat down heavily beside Professor Flitwick, who had to grab his goblet to keep it from toppling.
Dumbledore smiled gently. "Let the feast begin."
In an instant, golden platters appeared on every table, filled with roast chicken, potatoes, corn on the cob, and bubbling gravy boats. The room filled with the sounds of clinking cutlery and conversation.
But Lennon barely touched her food.
Her eyes occasionally drifted to the Slytherin table, where Mattheo sat, head low, laughing at something Theodore said. Lorenzo looked around the hall lazily, but his gaze never met hers.
As the meal wound down and dessert appeared, Draco struck again.
"Fainting over a Dementor," he scoffed loudly. "Honestly, Potter—are you sure you're cut out for all this hero business?"
Lennon slammed her spoon down.
Oliver, ever the peacekeeper, placed a steady hand on her arm.
"Not tonight," he murmured.
Lennon exhaled sharply through her nose and forced her hands into her lap.
As the prefects began to call for first years and the tables slowly emptied, Lennon rose with the rest of the Gryffindors, her thoughts buzzing.
They were back.
But nothing about this year would be easy.
Not with Dementors on the grounds.
Not with Sirius Black on the run.
And not with the boy who once kissed her pretending she didn't exist.