Hogwarts had a way of throwing nonsense at its students at all hours of the day, and the WIX had long since stopped pretending they were above it.
It started, as these things often did, with a goat.
"WHY is there a goat in the Entrance Hall?" Artemis asked, staring in dismay at the small, scruffy creature calmly chewing on what might have once been someone's Potions essay.
"Why isn't there always a goat?" Sol offered from behind her, looking entirely too pleased.
"Please tell me you had nothing to do with this," Rosaline said, appearing at Artemis' elbow, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.
Sol raised both hands. "I swear on the The Wixen Chronicles that I had no part in introducing Sir Nibbles III to the student body."
"Sir Nibbles III?" Artemis repeated flatly.
"Tradition," Sol said solemnly. "The first two Sir Nibbles were tragically lost to the Forbidden Forest. May their fuzzy souls rest in peace."
Rosaline groaned, rubbing her temples. "This school is cursed."
The goat bleated loudly and then attempted to nibble on Artemis' robes. She stepped back, her patience already hanging by a thread. "I'm leaving this to the prefects."
"Artemis," Sol said, voice suddenly sweet. "You are a prefect."
Artemis opened her mouth to argue — and then remembered. Right. She and Magnus had been made prefects this year. Another reminder that her life was now an absurd blend of teenage chaos and reincarnated knowledge, all wrapped in the school's refusal to let her have a single quiet year.
"Speaking of prefects," Magnus' calm voice drifted in from the doorway, where he was watching the goat situation with quiet amusement. "Ready for rounds?"
Artemis sighed. "Yes. Please. Anywhere but here."
Sol waved them off with a cheery, "Tell Sir Nibbles I'll miss him when they inevitably banish him!"
A cluster of first-years were huddled near the base of the grand staircase, one brave Gryffindor holding out a bit of toast in an attempt to lure the goat.
"It's okay," the boy was saying, voice wobbling. "Goats like toast, don't they?"
Sir Nibbles III headbutted the toast straight out of his hand, then seized someone's quill in triumph.
"He's got my homework!" a second-year wailed, as the goat triumphantly trotted toward the front doors.
"He's eating it," Gwenog observed dryly, arms crossed. "Well, there goes your excuse."
Meanwhile…
The balcony overlooked the lake, where the last light of the sunset rippled across the water, streaking it with gold and deep indigo. A soft breeze curled through the air, carrying the scent of wildflowers, faint honeysuckle, and something earthier — damp grass and distant smoke from the kitchens' outdoor ovens. The stone railing beneath Rosaline's hands was cool, the kind of cool that made her fingertips tingle after too long, and it anchored her — something solid to hold onto while her stomach performed an entirely unrequested gymnastics routine.
Marcus stood beside her, just slightly too close to be accidental, his hands shoved into his robe pockets like they might betray him if left to their own devices. The breeze ruffled his hair, dark curls flopping into his eyes, and Rosaline felt an inexplicable urge to reach up and push them back. She didn't. Her own hands were far too busy gripping reality.
She'd had flings before. Nothing serious — a stolen kiss or two in broom closets, a few dates with boys who wore their confidence like a badge, the sort who knew how to pose in doorways and flirt in crowded hallways. But Marcus — Marcus was none of that. There was no swagger to him, no script. Just this quiet, sincere awkwardness, a boy who always seemed slightly startled that she was even here, beside him.
It was… nice, she realized, almost begrudgingly. There was no pressure, no sense that either of them was trying to win something. It was just a boy and a girl standing on a balcony, hands not quite brushing, with too many unsaid things hovering between them.
"I, uh—" Marcus started, then stopped, his hand twitching again like it might leap off his wrist and do something unforgivable. "I brought you something."
Rosaline turned, eyebrow raised, and watched as he dug into his pocket. Whatever grand romantic gesture he'd envisioned was promptly ruined by the distinct squelch of melted Chocolate Frog.
"Oh no," Marcus muttered, extracting the half-destroyed treat. The frog gave one last feeble wiggle before it expired in his palm, legs stuck to the wrapper.
Rosaline snorted before she could help herself, covering her mouth with her hand. "That's… incredibly romantic."
"I'm trying to be charming," Marcus groaned, grimacing at his own fingers. "It's not working, is it?"
"No," Rosaline said, still half-laughing. "But you're you, so it's working anyway."
The teasing lilt in her voice softened something in Marcus, and for the first time all evening, the tension in his shoulders eased. His hand hovered beside hers on the railing, and Rosaline, heart thudding traitorously, slid her pinky just the slightest bit closer.
The brush of skin was feather-light — accidental, if either of them wanted to pretend. Neither of them did.
Marcus looked at her mouth — caught, visibly, unmistakably — before jerking his gaze back to her eyes, face flushed pink from neck to ears. But Rosaline only smiled, leaning in first, closing the distance between them before either of them could talk themselves out of it.
The kiss was hesitant, soft — not the kind Rosaline had imagined in her wilder daydreams, but real, grounded in this moment, on this balcony, with this boy who couldn't have staged charm if his life depended on it.
When they parted, she kept her hand near his, her smile lopsided. "You can keep bringing me Chocolate Frogs," she said, voice quieter now.
Marcus grinned — crooked and relieved. "Deal."
And the next breeze carried the scent of honeysuckle and the start of something she wasn't quite ready to name.
Elsewhere, in a corner of the Library…
The library was quieter than usual for a Saturday afternoon, the low murmur of turning pages and occasional coughs blending into a familiar hush. The sun slanted through the tall windows, pooling golden light across the worn rugs and the uneven wooden tables. Vivian Delacroix sat cross-legged on the floor between two shelves, her back resting against a particularly creaky bookcase, her shoes kicked off somewhere nearby.
Across from her, Greg Hattick, the sixth-year Ravenclaw who had somehow stumbled into both her life and her good graces, sprawled out on his stomach, elbows propping him up as he lazily flipped through a half-ignored textbook. A half-eaten bag of sherbet lemons sat between them — a testament to Greg's eternal belief that studying was best done with sugar.
"If you had to fight one," Vivian said, her chin resting on her palm, "would you rather take on a fully-grown manticore or a pissed-off Veela?"
Greg snorted, brushing dark hair out of his eyes. "Is the Veela already on fire?"
"Let's assume she's at the 'dramatic sparkles and deadly glare' phase."
"Then the manticore. At least you know where you stand with claws."
"Coward," Vivian grinned. "It's fine — if a Veela ever flirts with you, I'll hex her hair off. Consider me your personal anti-siren bodyguard."
Greg raised a brow. "Possessive and deadly. My type exactly."
"Good," Vivian said, flicking a sherbet lemon at him. "And for the record, it's not possessive if I win."
Greg caught the sweet easily, popping it into his mouth. "It's weird, you know."
"What's weird?" Vivian asked, stretching her legs out and nudging his ankle with her toe.
Greg gave her a half-smile, easy and warm — the kind that always caught Vivian off-guard. "Liking you isn't hard at all."
The words were so simple, so genuine, that Vivian's usual arsenal of quips and witty deflections momentarily deserted her. She blinked, mouth opening, but no response arrived fast enough to disguise the faint flush creeping up her neck.
Somewhere behind the nearest bookshelf, Rosaline Dawson, self-declared Head Matchmaker of the WIX, leaned against the wood, her grin so wide it nearly split her face. She had stumbled upon the pair entirely by accident — or so she would claim — and was now basking in the glow of her most successful matchmaking effort to date.
Rosaline didn't step into view — no need to ruin the moment — but she gave herself a quiet, victorious fist-pump before slipping away, already planning which of her friends to meddle with next.
Back on the floor, Vivian cleared her throat, finally regaining enough composure to throw Greg a mock glare. "You're entirely too good at this, you know."
Greg tilted his head. "At what?"
"Making me like you back."
He smiled — lopsided and easy, as if the thought had never crossed his mind. "That's the goal, isn't it?"
And for once, Vivian had nothing clever to say.
Meanwhile, in the greatest act of misplaced confidence Hogwarts had seen all year…
Sol stood before Aurelia Parkinson, a coolly unimpressed seventh-year Slytherin whose only crime was being unreasonably beautiful and existing within Sol's line of sight.
"So," Sol said, flashing his most charming grin (which had a 50/50 success rate). "Hogsmeade weekend. You, me, and an irresponsible amount of butterbeer?"
Aurelia looked him up and down as though he were something vaguely stuck to her shoe. "No."
"No?"
"No."
Sol blinked. "You're sure?"
"Very."
"Cool, cool." Sol took a step back, hands in his pockets, head held high. "See you in Hogsmeade."
"You won't," Aurelia said, turning on her heel and vanishing down the corridor.
Sol turned to Henry, who had been watching the whole thing with the horrified fascination of someone witnessing a slow-motion train crash. "Well," Sol said cheerily. "At least she didn't hex me."
"Yet," Henry said.
Later, during prefect rounds…
The castle was quieter at night, the echoing footsteps the only sound as Artemis and Magnus walked side by side down the dimly lit corridor. They didn't talk much at first — they never needed to. Magnus' presence had always been more comforting than anything words could offer.
"Rough day?" Magnus asked softly, after several minutes of companionable silence.
Artemis exhaled, her arms crossing over her chest. "You have no idea."
"Actually, I might," Magnus said, his smile small and knowing.
Artemis glanced at him, and for the first time in a while, she let herself really look — at the calm steadiness in his expression, the way he always seemed to be there without making a fuss about it. It was so vastly different from the chaotic mess that was the rest of her life that it made her chest ache in a way she didn't quite understand.
"Why are you so… you?" Artemis asked, half-laughing, half-serious.
Magnus tilted his head. "What does that mean?"
"You're just—" Artemis flapped her hand, trying to find words. "Calm. Solid. It's annoying."
Magnus chuckled softly. "I figure someone has to be."
They paused at the top of the staircase, the moonlight slanting in through the window, making his hair glow faintly silver. Artemis' stomach did something suspiciously close to a flip, and she found herself turning slightly toward him, their shoulders brushing.
"Do you ever…" She hesitated. "Do you ever feel like you're pretending to be someone you're not, just to keep up?"
Magnus considered that for a moment, his brow furrowed. "Sometimes. But I think the people who matter will see through it."
Artemis' throat tightened, and before she could stop herself, she reached out and took his hand. His fingers curled around hers without hesitation, warm and steady.
"I see you," Magnus said quietly.
And just like that, the butterflies in her stomach exploded into a full swarm. For all the wisdom and memories of her past life, in this moment, she was just a teenage girl — one who liked a boy who made her feel safe, seen, and just a little breathless.
"Thanks," she murmured.
"Always," Magnus said, and his thumb brushed lightly over the back of her hand — a small gesture, but one that felt impossibly big.
They stood there for a moment longer, before Magnus squeezed her hand one more time and let go.
"Come on," he said, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We have more halls to patrol."
Artemis followed, her heart lighter than it had been in days.
The Ravenclaw fifth-year boys' dormitory was caught in that strange in-between hour — too late for real conversations, too early for proper sleep, the room swaddled in silver-blue moonlight filtering through the arched tower windows. The soft rustle of pages turning and the faint creak of bedsprings echoed in the stillness.
Sol lay sprawled across his own bed, limbs flung wide like a particularly dramatic corpse, his exaggerated misery filling the room with a low, theatrical groan.
"Mate," came Callum Windwere's voice from the bed by the window. "It's been hours. Let it go."
"She was brutal," Sol moaned into his pillow. "No mercy. No hesitation. Just—'no.' Like I wasn't even worth a pause for dramatic effect."
"Maybe she could sense you were rehearsing," Ewan Blackwood added from the far corner, his voice sleep-thick but amused. "Girls have instincts for these things."
Sol sat up sharply, pointing toward Ewan's bed like a man delivering the final, undeniable truth of the universe. "Or maybe, just maybe, Hogwarts girls have formed a secret anti-Sol coalition."
Callum snorted, rolling onto his side. "That's ambitious. They'd never organize something that efficient."
Magnus Kane, sitting cross-legged on his own bed, a book balanced in his lap, hadn't commented — not because he wasn't listening, but because he was waiting. Magnus always waited Sol out, the way someone waits for a sugar-rushed child to run themselves ragged before offering juice and a nap.
"Magnus," Sol said dramatically, flopping across the gap between their beds to poke Magnus' knee, "back me up. There's a conspiracy. It's the only explanation."
Magnus finally glanced up, one brow arching. "Or — and hear me out — girls don't like being asked out like they're part of some performance."
Sol gasped, hand to chest. "How dare you."
"It's true," Magnus said mildly. "You treat it like a Quidditch stunt. Big gesture, maximum witnesses, no actual sincerity."
"That's my charm, Magnus," Sol said, scandalized.
"No," Magnus said patiently, "that's your deflection."
The other two boys fell silent — not because they were particularly invested in Sol's romantic self-sabotage, but because when Magnus spoke like that, people tended to listen.
Sol opened his mouth — then shut it again, eyes narrowing. "Are you trying to psychoanalyze me?"
Magnus turned a page, entirely unconcerned. "If the hat fits."
Ewan, who had been propped against his headboard attempting to study a diagram of defensive spellforms, sighed. "For the record, there's an actual betting pool in the common room about how many more times you'll get rejected before Christmas."
Sol's head snapped around. "What?"
"Started last year," Ewan said. "Mostly fifth and sixth years, but a couple of younger ones have gotten involved. Current odds say eight more rejections before the holidays."
"Eight?! That's outrageous," Sol said, scandalized. "What do they think I am, some kind of walking tragedy?"
"Are you saying you aren't?" Callum asked sweetly.
Sol threw a sock at him.
"Who's running the pool?" Sol demanded, voice rising. "I want names."
Ewan yawned. "I think Fiona Davies started it after you accidentally flirted with her cousin and her cousin's boyfriend in the same afternoon."
Sol pointed wildly. "That was a miscommunication. Anyone could have made that mistake."
Magnus made a faint noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter, though he hid it behind his book.
"Besides," Sol continued, "Aurelia Parkinson is totally playing the long game. She's just too intimidated to show interest yet."
Callum snorted. "Mate, she looked at you like you were a particularly disappointing stain on her shoe."
"Deflection!" Sol announced, jabbing a finger in the air. "Classic Slytherin technique. Tear me down now so she can swoop in later and rebuild me as her perfect bad-boy project."
Ewan pulled his pillow over his face. "I'm begging you to shut up."
"I admire your confidence," Magnus said dryly.
"It's all I have left," Sol said dramatically, collapsing backwards across Magnus' blankets. "If the girls of Hogwarts want to play mind games with me, I'm ready. They can't break what's already cracked."
"Philosophical," Callum muttered.
Magnus nudged Sol's leg with his foot. "Or," he said quietly, "you could just…be yourself."
Sol made a face. "Ugh. Boring."
Magnus didn't push — but something in the way his gaze lingered on Sol, that quiet steadiness he always carried, made Sol's stomach twist in a way he wasn't quite ready to think about. He covered it with a grin.
"Whatever," Sol said, kicking off Magnus' bed and flopping back onto his own. "Let the pool run. I thrive under pressure."
"You thrive under delusion," Callum corrected.
"Same difference," Sol shot back.
As the dorm settled back into quiet, Magnus went back to his book, and Sol lay awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling. The bravado, the jokes, the conspiracy theories — all of it was easier than admitting the truth.
Somewhere, deep down, Sol Moonfall was just a boy who wanted someone to like him for real.