For the first time in months, the castle stirred without dread.
It began subtly — the kind of shift that only those who'd lived through the silence could feel. The ancient stones seemed warmer, the torches steadier.
The Great Hall echoed again with the clatter of cutlery and snippets of laughter that didn't sound forced. The roosters still strutted like sentries through the corridors, but even they seemed calmer, pausing to let giggling second-years scratch at their glossy feathers before continuing their slow patrol.
The morning post arrived in a flurry of wings, parchment, and the faint smell of rain. When Dumbledore rose from the staff table, the noise dimmed at once. He looked out over the sea of expectant faces, his expression serene but measured.
"My dear students," he began, "I believe you have all earned the right to breathe again."
A ripple of quiet amusement swept the room.
"The staff and I are confident that the recent measures have strengthened the castle's protections. And while vigilance must never wane, it is equally important that joy not fade entirely." His eyes twinkled, faintly. "Therefore, I am pleased to announce that Quidditch season will resume — under new safety enchantments, of course."
The response was instant. A low, cautious murmur swelled into a thunder of cheers. Gryffindors pounded their tables, Hufflepuffs whooped, and even some Slytherins smirked approvingly. For a moment, it felt like Hogwarts again — loud, alive, a little reckless.
Shya, seated between Talora and Cassian, exchanged a look with her friend. "A calculated risk," she murmured.
"Or a distraction," Cassian said, his tone thoughtful. "He's hoping the Heir will make a mistake."
"Good," Roman muttered, grinning faintly. "Let them try. I could use something interesting again
"Now," Professor McGonagall said crisply, pacing before the blackboard, "the key to the Switching Spell lies not in brute magical force but in clarity of intention. If you do not understand precisely what you mean to switch, you may very well trade your desk for a hedgehog."
A ripple of uneasy laughter moved through the classroom.
"Pair off," she continued, "and remember — concentration, articulation, and restraint. Miss Gill, if you'd kindly demonstrate?"
All eyes turned to Shya. She rose, wand loose in hand, the faintest flicker of confidence in her expression. On her desk sat two objects: a teacup and a quill.
"Switchero!" she said, her wand movement sharp and deliberate.
With a faint pop, the teacup and quill swapped properties — the teacup's porcelain gleamed with a faint feathered texture, while the quill stood upright, perfectly balanced, its nib rimmed in delicate china.
A few students gasped.
"Clean, precise, and elegant," McGonagall said approvingly. "As ever, Miss Gill sets the standard. Ten points to Ravenclaw."
Talora, seated beside her, gave a low whistle. "You show-off."
"Occupational hazard," Shya replied smoothly, giving her wand a casual twirl before sitting back down.
Across the aisle, Roman whispered, "Reckon she practices in her sleep."
"Reckon you should," Cassian said flatly without looking up, his own transfiguration unfolding neatly before him.
Within minutes, the classroom was filled with the sounds of faint pops and startled exclamations. Padma's quill had grown a handle, Lisa's teacup was halfway invisible, and Mandy's had begun to levitate on its own.
McGonagall clapped her hands. "Excellent effort, all of you. Now— reversal, please."
The chorus of Reparifarge! rang out, undoing the chaos in a flurry of soft sparks.
Talora's cup reappeared almost perfect—only a faint ink stain betrayed its recent adventure. Shya's, of course, was flawless.
"Don't smirk," Talora said under her breath, though she was smiling too.
"I wasn't," Shya said, smirking. "Just appreciating my own genius."
McGonagall's sharp eyes flicked their way. "Miss Gill, Miss Livanthos—perhaps you'd like to demonstrate the Switching Spell on the rabbit-slipper transformation cycle instead of on each other's egos."
The class laughed.
A twitch of McGonagall's wand, and two plush slippers appeared before them. "You've both shown excellent control — let's see if you can coordinate it."
The challenge lit in both their eyes immediately.
"Ready?" Shya murmured.
Talora nodded. "On three."
"One. Two. Three— Lapifors!"
The slippers shimmered, stretched, and split into two soft rabbits that bounded across the desk.
"Reparifarge!" Shya countered smoothly, the rabbits collapsing back into fabric — perfectly folded pairs, not a thread out of place.
The class applauded softly; even Cassian looked faintly impressed.
McGonagall smiled — a real one this time. "That, my dears, is how magic is meant to look. Poise and precision." She turned to the rest of the class. "Follow their lead, please — minus the commentary."
As the students returned to work, Talora whispered, "If you ever use that smirk on me again, I'll hex your pillow purple."
"Worth it," Shya said, grinning.
The air in Greenhouse Three was cool and dim, a stark contrast to the bright spring day outside. Professor Sprout stood before the class, her hands on her hips, a thick, ropy vine coiled ominously at her feet.
"Right, settle down! Today, we're moving on to something a bit more... persuasive. Devil's Snare." She gestured to the dark, creeping plant that seemed to shift slightly in the shadows.
"You'll remember it from your first year, but we'll be working with a mature specimen. It's stronger, faster, and less forgiving of hesitation."
A collective, nervous gulp went through the class. They all remembered the theory, and the horror stories.
"The principles are the same," Sprout said, her voice firm. "It dislikes light and fire. But your reaction time must be impeccable. Panic, and it will crush the breath from you. Calm, precise action is your only defense."
She bustled down the rows, handing out dragonhide gloves. "And while we're on the topic of patience yielding results, I'm pleased to report the Mandrakes are coming along beautifully. With continued care, we should have a viable batch for revival by the end of the term."
A hopeful murmur spread through the students. The news about the petrified victims was a rare flicker of light.
Talora approached her assigned plant with a quiet focus, her movements slow and deliberate. The dark vine stirred, but did not immediately lash out.
"Easy now," she murmured, more to herself than the plant.
Beside her, Shya eyed her own Devil's Snare with deep suspicion. "It looks like it's judging me."
"It probably is," Talora replied without looking up. "Just don't give it a reason to act on it."
"Firm but respectful, Miss Gill!" Professor Sprout called out as she passed. "Remember, plants respond to intent!"
Shya took a slow breath and reached out. The vine twitched but remained still. "Progress," she muttered under her breath.
"See?" Talora said, a small smile playing on her lips. "Even the murderous vines are starting to like you."
"Don't jinx it," Shya shot back, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward.
That night in the common room, their essays sprawled across the table between half-empty mugs of cocoa and Luna's sketches. The firelight flickered on parchment and ink.
Shya's quill hovered over her homework, her neat script winding lazily across the page. "You realize we're actually doing well," she said suddenly.
Talora looked up. "Define well."
"No one's petrified, McGonagall isn't threatening to make us practice until midnight, and Snape hasn't taken points in three days."
Talora smiled faintly. "That does sound like progress."
Shya leaned back in her chair, gazing toward the window, where rain streaked the glass. "Feels like the castle's breathing again."
And for once — it did. The air was warmer, the laughter real, the rhythm of school returning as if Hogwarts itself wanted to remember peace before whatever came next.
Professor Flitwick stood at the front of the sunny classroom, beaming. "Now, class! We've studied the theory — today we perfect the General Counter-Spell, Finite Incantatem! A good witch or wizard must know how to end magic as well as cast it. Balance, always balance!"
Shya leaned forward in her seat, a glint in her eye. "Ending someone else's magic is always more satisfying than casting your own," she murmured, her voice low.
Talora readied her wand with a small, knowing smile. "Especially when it's messy."
Flitwick clapped once. "Let's practice safely! Paired casting. Small effects only. No accidental explosions, please."
A ripple of laughter.
Wands rose in unison.
Across the aisle, Hermione Granger had already produced a perfect Lumos spark and extinguished it with crisp, textbook precision. Shya noticed, of course — her gaze sharpened, not with envy, but with competitive fire.
She flicked her wand. "Finite Incantatem!"
The spark didn't just vanish; it was unmade, the light snuffed without a sound, leaving not even a memory of glow in the air.
Talora, beside her, was more fluid. Her wand moved in a soft arc. "Finite incantatem." Her Lumos spark didn't pop out of existence; it gently faded, like the sun going down at the end of the day, the magic unraveling with such grace it seemed to thank her.
Flitwick scurried over, practically vibrating with delight. "Superb! Truly superb! Miss Gill, such decisive force! Miss Livanthos, such elegant dissolution! Two masterful approaches!"
Hermione glanced over, her expression one of envy,, storing the data away.
"Think she's mentally grading us?" Shya whispered, not bothering to hide her smirk.
"Probably taking points off for it not being standard ," Talora replied dryly.
Roman, from behind them, nudged Cassian. "Show-offs."
Cassian, who had silenced a chiming charm with a single, bored flick of his wrist, didn't look up. "It's not showing off if you can actually do it."
The lesson carried on in a hum of controlled chaos — colors fading, silenced jinxes, minor enchantments neatly undone. By the end of the hour, the room was filled with the easy confidence of students who had mastered a fundamental power. It was, for a brief, shining moment, the Hogwarts they all remembered—and the one they were fighting to protect.
The dungeon was cooler, the light dim and silvery on the stone tables. The scent of metal and damp parchment hung heavy.
Snape glided between rows like a shadow. "Today," he said smoothly, "we will perfect your Swelling Solution. Most of you brewed a passable version last term. Passable is not acceptable."
His black eyes swept the room, daring anyone to challenge him. No one did.
"Ingredients measured to the grain. Flames kept low. Stir clockwise only. Any deviation—" he paused, his gaze flicking briefly to Neville Longbottom "—will result in… visible consequences."
Shya shared a glance with Talora, both suppressing a grin.
They set to work. The rhythm of their partnership had become second nature — Shya fast and precise, Talora steady and exacting. The solution simmered to a soft lilac shimmer, bubbles swelling and shrinking like breathing.
At the next table, Hermione's potion was already textbook-perfect — translucent, uniform. Shya pretended not to notice.
"Alright," Talora murmured. "Moment of truth. Swelling test."
She dropped a single dried bean into the potion. It expanded, perfectly round, until it was the size of a walnut.
Shya smiled faintly. "And that's how it's done."
Snape swept past, cloak whispering. He stopped, peered into their cauldron, and gave a single, curt nod. "Competent. Add a single clockwise stir, Miss Gill, and it would have been excellent."
"I'll try harder to live up to your dreams, sir," Shya murmured under her breath.
Roman stifled a laugh.
Snape didn't turn. "Five points from Ravenclaw for unnecessary commentary."
Talora elbowed Shya gently. "You just can't help yourself."
"It's a medical condition."
The bell rang a few minutes later. The students packed up amid soft laughter and light chatter — no explosions, no emergencies, just learning.
By the end of the week, the group had made the library their new home base. Their Haven — once hidden, warm, and theirs — remained sealed by the castle's magic. The library, though quieter and more public, carried a similar comfort in its candlelit stillness.
It wasn't the same, but it was something.
They gathered at their usual table under the arched windows — books scattered, parchment spread, half of them pretending to study.
Padma and Lisa were revising Charms notes. Mandy had fallen asleep on her open Herbology text. Talora sat with Luna, reviewing potion measurements.
Shya leaned back, twirling her quill idly between her fingers, her eyes on the ceiling's painted constellations.
"It's weird," she said finally. "Being here instead of... you know."
Cassian looked up from his book across the table. "The Haven."
"Yeah." Shya's voice softened. "It was quieter. Safer. Like the walls knew us."
Roman gave a half-smile. "These walls definitely know us. They're just judging."
That earned a few chuckles, but there was an ache beneath it — shared and unspoken.
"It's not the same," Talora admitted. "But it's still ours. As long as we're together."
Cassian's gaze flicked to her, thoughtful. "That's what makes a place protected, not the walls."
Roman hummed. "Getting poetic, are we?"
"Practical," Cassian corrected.
Luna, absentmindedly doodling a rooster with tiny angel wings in the corner of her parchment, added dreamily, "Maybe the Haven misses us too. Maybe it's asleep, waiting for us to wake it up."
The group fell quiet for a moment — not uncomfortable silence, but that soft kind that hummed with shared memory.
Padma looked up from her notes. "At least we still have this."
"And roosters," Shya added wryly. "Nothing says peace of mind like being woken up by feathered alarm clocks."
Mandy stirred, half-asleep. "I like them. They're warm."
Roman smirked. "You tried hugging one, didn't you?"
She mumbled, "Maybe."
The laughter that followed was quiet but genuine, threading warmth through the stillness of the library.
It was nearly closing time when the news rippled through the room — the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff match had been officially rescheduled for the first week of May.
Padma looked up from the notice board where a flyer had been pinned. "It's really happening."
Roman leaned back in his chair. "Finally. Maybe Potter will remember how to have fun instead of nearly dying midair."
"Don't jinx it," Talora said, though she was smiling.
"Too late," Shya muttered, closing her book. "It's Potter. Nearly dying is his warm-up routine."
Luna nodded serenely. "Hufflepuff will win. The Nargles favor yellow this month."
Cassian arched an eyebrow. "You have monthly forecasts now?"
"Of course," Luna said seriously. "They like patterns."
The table broke into soft laughter again.
For the first time in a long while, the sound wasn't forced.
The castle beyond the windows seemed to sigh, the glow of the torches outside steady and warm. The group sat a little closer together that night, surrounded by stacks of parchment and the faint scent of ink — rebuilding what they had lost, one quiet evening at a time.