The afternoon sun spilled through the high windows of the Great Hall, casting golden streaks across long wooden tables and half-eaten plates. Laughter echoed, clinking cutlery punctuated every breath between stories, and the start of term had settled into a kind of noisy rhythm. A rhythm Lennon moved through quietly.
It had been a few weeks since she'd returned to Hogwarts.
She walked the castle halls with calm precision, weaving between crowds, her robes always neat, her books always stacked in her arms like a small, personal shield. But something had shifted.
People noticed her more now.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't attention like Harry got—the kind that chased you down corridors and whispered your name behind hands. But it lingered in second glances. In respectful nods from seventh years. In quiet greetings from students who once hadn't known her name.
She didn't quite know how to feel about it.
Especially not today.
Because that morning, before most had finished breakfast, she'd heard about the incident in Care of Magical Creatures. Hagrid's first class. A hippogriff. And Draco Malfoy's scream cutting across the field like a shattering window.
By the time the whispers reached her, it was already growing. "Buckbeak attacked him," someone said. "Malfoy provoked him," said another. "They're trying to get Hagrid sacked."
Her stomach turned.
Without a word, she slipped out of the castle and made her way down the familiar path to Hagrid's hut.
The grass still showed signs of a scuffle—hoof marks, blood, long scratches in the dirt where talons had struck.
No one else was there.
She knocked once, then opened the door.
Hagrid was hunched at the table, massive shoulders slumped forward, his beard hiding most of his face. Fang lay curled beside him, whining softly.
"Hagrid?" Her voice was gentle.
He didn't look up. "I shouldn't've… I knew it was too much for a first class. Thought if I showed 'em how majestic they are…"
"He is majestic," Lennon said, stepping inside. "Draco just doesn't know how to respect anything that can't be bought."
Hagrid sniffled, wiping his nose with a handkerchief the size of a tea towel. "They're talkin' about sendin' a formal complaint to the Ministry. Sayin' Buckbeak's dangerous."
Lennon crossed the room and sat across from him. "They're wrong. You didn't do anything wrong."
He looked up then, eyes bloodshot. "You always say the right things."
"No," she said. "I just know what it's like to be blamed for something that wasn't your fault."
She reached over and placed a hand on his. "You have more people in your corner than you think."
⸻
By dinner, the castle was buzzing.
The Gryffindor table practically vibrated with energy, the scent of roast chicken and treacle tart rising in the air. Lennon slid into her usual seat just as Ron launched into a retelling—already mid-performance.
"—I swear on my broomstick, it was like something out of a play!" Ron stood dramatically. "Buckbeak rears up like this—"
He spread his arms, almost hitting Seamus in the face.
"—and Malfoy goes, 'Noooo!'" Ron mimed falling backwards in exaggerated slow motion.
Ginny was doubled over. Dean nearly spat out his pumpkin juice. Even Hermione, ever the composed one, let out a quiet snort of laughter.
"Then Harry had to carry him halfway to the castle because he 'couldn't feel his arm,'" Ron added with finger quotes.
The table burst into fresh laughter.
Lennon couldn't help it—her laugh was quiet at first, but real, curling out of her like sunlight cracking through a stormcloud. She covered her mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking as the story went on.
That's when it happened.
She felt it first, then looked up.
Across the hall, at the Slytherin table, three pairs of eyes were on her.
Mattheo had turned his head first, sharp profile silhouetted by candlelight. His gaze lingered, unreadable.
Next was Theodore, leaning slightly past a first-year to see her more clearly.
Then Lorenzo, who tilted his head with a curious flick of golden hair, expression caught somewhere between surprise and something softer.
They didn't smile.
But they didn't look away.
It was the first time since the platform—since they'd avoided her in careful silences—that they looked at her not like a stranger, not like a risk.
But like Lennon.
She held their gaze for a moment, chest tight, pulse a little quick.
Then she turned back to her plate and took a slow breath.
They weren't ready to speak yet. She wasn't sure she was either.
But something had shifted.
And sometimes, a look is louder than words.