The platform was thick with steam and voices, a blur of hugs, hooting owls, and rolling trunks. The Hogwarts Express stood like a red giant, exhaling plumes of white smoke as students bustled around it, parents giving final hugs and warnings.
Lennon stood still in the chaos, her hand wrapped tightly around the handle of her worn suitcase, eyes scanning the crowd.
Theodore, Lorenzo, and Mattheo were just a few feet away.
They saw her. She saw them.
But none of them moved.
Lorenzo gave her the faintest nod—almost imperceptible. Theodore shifted awkwardly, staring down at the polished stone beneath his feet. Mattheo met her eyes for only a second before he looked away.
And that was answer enough.
Their families were close. Powerful. Watchful. And despite the quiet summer they had stolen together, they couldn't risk being seen with her now—not when the return to Hogwarts meant returning to bloodlines and loyalties.
She didn't blame them. But it still stung.
Her heart clenched, but she turned without a word, lifting her suitcase onto the train with quiet dignity.
⸻
The compartment was half-empty when she found it.
Ron and Hermione were already inside. Harry joined them minutes later, dragging his trunk with Hedwig hooting irritably in her cage.
Lennon slid into the seat beside Hermione, offering a small smile.
"You okay?" Hermione asked.
Lennon nodded. "Yeah."
But her voice was quieter than usual.
Across from them sat a man, slumped in the corner, fast asleep. Shabbily dressed in patched robes, with flecks of grey in his hair and deep lines carved around his mouth. But his presence was peaceful. Steady.
Lennon's heart skipped.
Remus.
He hadn't seen her yet. But he was here. That was enough to breathe easier.
The train gave a great shudder and began to move.
⸻
They spent most of the trip talking quietly—Harry filling them in on the escape from Privet Drive with Ron, Fred, and George in the flying car, and Hermione reading aloud from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3. Lennon half-listened, half-watched the countryside blur by.
When the trolley witch came by, she politely declined.
Mattheo passed the window just as she took a sip of pumpkin juice.
He didn't look in.
Her chest ached.
⸻
Rain streaked the windows as evening settled over the train.
Then, all at once, the lights flickered. The train gave a sudden jolt and slowed rapidly. Outside, the sky darkened like ink spilled across it.
"What's happening?" Ron asked, glancing around.
"I—I don't know," Hermione said nervously.
The train groaned to a halt.
Then silence.
No movement. No noise but the soft drip of rain.
Lennon's stomach twisted.
The door slid open.
A figure stepped in.
Tall. Cloaked. Its face hidden beneath a hood that reached down into blackness. The air turned cold. Colder than anything natural.
Lennon's breath caught.
She recognized it.
A Dementor.
Everyone in the compartment froze.
A chill wrapped around her, sinking into her bones. The world dimmed. Her chest constricted like something was pressing against it from the inside.
Harry suddenly gasped and fell sideways in his seat, eyes wide and unfocused.
The Dementor loomed.
Lennon felt it too—a rush of darkness flooding her thoughts. Her knees trembled. Her breathing grew shallow.
Her mother's voice, cold as steel: You're just like him. Weak. Worthless.
She closed her eyes.
Then—
"Enough."
A voice cut through the dark like fire.
A flash of silver-blue light filled the compartment. A stag—brilliant and ghostlike—burst from the end of a wand.
The Dementor recoiled, then glided back into the corridor.
Light returned slowly.
Lennon opened her eyes.
Harry was slumped against the window, pale and clammy.
And standing in the doorway, wand still raised, was Remus Lupin.
"Eat this," he said calmly, handing Harry a piece of chocolate. "It'll help."
He looked around the compartment, eyes soft but sharp, checking everyone. When his gaze landed on Lennon, his entire face shifted.
"Hey, sweetheart," he said gently. "You alright?"
She nodded shakily, swallowing past the lump in her throat.
He stepped inside and knelt beside Harry, checking his pulse, his breathing.
"I'll have a word with the conductor," Remus murmured after a moment, standing. "That should not have happened."
And then he turned and left, his worn robes swishing as he disappeared down the corridor.
⸻
Lennon stared out the window for a long time after.
Rain clung to the glass.
Outside, she thought she saw a flicker of blond hair—Lorenzo, maybe—or the familiar outline of Mattheo heading down the aisle. But neither came to check on her.
Hermione offered her hand. Lennon took it.
And held on.
Not to stop shaking.
But because she could.