Late evening settled over Hogwarts like a velvet curtain drawn gently across the world.
The castle had quieted hours ago.
No stampeding students thundered through the corridors now. No laughter spilled from staircases. Only the old living sounds of Hogwarts remained—the occasional creak of ancient wood, the shifting groan of enchanted armor adjusting its stance, the distant muttering of portraits settling in for the night.
Beyond the tall arched windows of the Headmaster’s office, the grounds stretched silver-blue beneath moonlight. The Black Lake reflected the stars in shattered fragments, disturbed now and then by the slow ripple of something deep beneath the surface.
Inside the office, warmth gathered in soft golden layers.
The fire crackled low within the hearth, casting amber light across crowded bookshelves and curious silver instruments that whirred quietly atop their tables. Shadows moved lazily along the curved walls. The scent of parchment, old wood, and lemon drops lingered faintly in the air.
Fawkes rested upon his gilded perch near the window, crimson feathers glowing softly in the firelight. His eyes were half-lidded with contentment, though every so often the phoenix gave a faint rustle of wings as though listening to the castle breathe around him.
Professor Minerva McGonagall stood near the window with a porcelain teacup cradled carefully between her hands.
She looked tired.
Not physically alone—though there was certainly that—but with the quiet weariness that came from years of watching children grow through joys and griefs alike.
Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, spectacles glinting faintly as he studied the fire with the thoughtful expression he often wore during the castle’s quieter hours.
For a time, neither spoke.
The silence between them was old and comfortable.
Then Dumbledore’s mouth twitched faintly.
“I passed Gryffindor Tower earlier this evening,” he said mildly.
McGonagall took a slow sip of tea, “And?”
Dumbledore folded his hands atop the desk, “I discovered Mr. Ronald Weasley standing upon an armchair while attempting to retrieve his dragon from the ceiling beams.”
A pause.
“Mr. Jordan was providing commentary.”
McGonagall closed her eyes briefly, “Of course he was.”
Dumbledore’s eyes sparkled, “He appeared remarkably committed to the role. I believe he announced that Mr. Weasley was ‘losing by six points and a sock.’”
Despite herself, one corner of McGonagall’s mouth twitched, “That also sounds accurate.”
The fire popped softly.
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, studying her over the rim of his spectacles.
“And yet,” he said, voice light with curiosity, “the dragon remains in Gryffindor Tower.”
McGonagall gave him a measured look.
“You sound surprised.”
“A little.”
His beard shifted faintly as he smiled.
“A fire-breathing creature residing inside student quarters would ordinarily result in several strongly worded lectures.”
“At minimum,” McGonagall replied dryly.
“And perhaps a forty-page safety memorandum.”
“I had begun drafting one.”
Dumbledore’s brows rose, “Had?”
McGonagall sighed softly through her nose and turned back toward the window.
Moonlight silvered the sharp lines of her profile.
The reflection staring back at her from the glass looked older tonight.
“When Peter Pettigrew was discovered,” she said quietly, “Mr. Weasley was deeply shaken.”
The warmth in the room dimmed slightly beneath the weight of the memory.
Dumbledore’s expression gentled at once, “Yes.”
McGonagall’s fingers tightened faintly around her teacup, “He tried very hard not to show it.”
Her voice carried the certainty of someone who had spent decades reading children more accurately than they realized.
“Most boys his age do.” She looked down into her tea for a moment, thoughtful, “He still laughed with his brothers afterward. Still complained about assignments. Still argued loudly enough to wake half the tower.”
A tiny pause, “But the silences changed.”
Dumbledore watched her quietly.
Minerva rarely spoke at length about such things unless they mattered deeply.
“He became watchful,” she continued softly. “Not frightened exactly. Worse.”
Her eyes lowered slightly.
“Uncertain.”
The fire crackled behind them.
“He had spent years loving a creature that slept beside him,” she said, voice quieter now, “only to discover it had never truly been what it claimed.”
The words lingered heavily in the room.
Even the silver instruments seemed quieter.
Dumbledore leaned back slowly in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
“Yes,” he murmured at last. “That sort of betrayal leaves wounds children rarely know how to name.”
McGonagall nodded once.
She remembered Ronald Weasley in the days immediately afterward.
Too awake.
Too tense.
Startling whenever movement brushed his bed curtains at night.
Laughing too loudly during meals.
Holding his dormitory trunk closed with unnecessary force.
Children often believed adults failed to notice such things.
They rarely understood how visible pain became to those who spent their lives teaching.
Then Mira Silverthorne had arrived in Gryffindor Tower carrying a tiny silver-scaled dragon wrapped in a knitted blanket.
McGonagall’s stern mouth softened almost despite her.
“She did not give him a distraction,” she said quietly.
Dumbledore’s eyes flickered knowingly at the mention of Mira.
“No,” he agreed.
“She gave him something honest.”
A faint smile touched McGonagall’s lips now.
“The dragon adores him.”
“Yes,” Dumbledore said warmly. “Very openly, from what I have heard.”
“Painfully openly.”
There was the faintest hint of dry amusement in her tone.
“Scorch possesses absolutely no capacity for deception.”
Dumbledore chuckled softly, “That may explain why he attempted to bite Mr. Filch after being denied sausage.”
“He did bite Mr. Filch.”
“Ah.”
“Twice.”
Dumbledore’s beard twitched suspiciously.
McGonagall continued before he could laugh outright.
“I have watched Mr. Weasley these past weeks.”
Her voice gentled further.
“He laughs differently now.”
Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened slightly with interest.
“Differently?”
“Yes.”
She searched briefly for the words.
“Before… it often sounded forced after Pettigrew’s arrest. Loud for the sake of being loud.”
Her eyes drifted toward the fire.
“Now it arrives before he thinks to hide it.”
A long silence followed.
Fawkes gave a low, melodic trill from his perch.
McGonagall looked toward the phoenix briefly.
“He sleeps during evening study periods now,” she admitted. “Sometimes with the dragon curled beneath his chin.”
The image clearly betrayed her resolve to remain entirely stern about the situation.
Dumbledore noticed immediately.
“Ah,” he said very softly.
McGonagall narrowed her eyes.
“Do not start.”
“You were overcome by cuteness.”
“I most certainly was not.”
“The fearsome Head of Gryffindor defeated by six inches of dragon.”
“It is not six inches anymore.”
“Oh dear.”
“It is nearly eight.”
“How terrifying.”
McGonagall gave him a deeply unimpressed look.
“It sneezes sparks whenever excited.”
“A grave threat to public safety.”
“It stole Percy Weasley’s prefect badges and hid them beneath a sofa cushion.”
Dumbledore laughed openly then, warm and bright enough that even Fawkes ruffled his feathers.
McGonagall tried—and failed—to suppress the reluctant curve threatening her mouth.
“He spent two hours accusing Fred and George before the dragon sneezed glitter at him.”
Dumbledore pressed a hand to his beard, still smiling.
“A cunning beast indeed.”
The laughter faded slowly after that, leaving behind something quieter.
Older.
McGonagall turned once more toward the window.
Outside, moonlight stretched pale across the grounds.
Her reflection stared back at her again, lined with years of watching children survive things they never should have endured.
“Hogwarts has always carried wounded children through its doors,” she said softly.
The words came slowly now.
Carefully.
“Some heal quickly.”
Her fingers rested lightly against the warm porcelain cup.
“Others carry the hurt for years.”
Dumbledore said nothing.
He knew better than to interrupt certain truths once spoken.
McGonagall’s gaze drifted briefly toward Fawkes.
The phoenix met her eyes quietly.
“And sometimes,” she continued, voice almost fragile beneath its composure, “healing begins with something very small.”
Fawkes gave another gentle trill.
Dumbledore’s expression softened profoundly.
“A tiny dragon,” he said.
McGonagall’s lips curved faintly, “Yes.”
The fire crackled softly.
Somewhere deep within the castle, faint shouting suddenly echoed through the corridors.
Then came Ronald Weasley’s unmistakable voice:
“SCORCH, GIVE THAT BACK!”
A crash followed.
Several portraits in the office stirred awake in annoyance.
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled immediately.
McGonagall closed her eyes with the exhausted patience of a woman who had accepted her fate long ago.
“He’s stolen Mr. Weasley’s socks again,” she said.
Another distant shout rang faintly through the castle.
Followed by laughter.
Then what sounded suspiciously like Seamus Finnigan yelling, “HE’S IN THE CURTAINS!”
Dumbledore smiled into the firelight.
“Then perhaps,” he said serenely, “all is well at Hogwarts tonight.”
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and then Add to home screen.