A Father’s Worry

Life at Hogwarts slowly returned to its usual rhythm, though the shadows of recent events still lingered. Frey, even knowing deep down that Cael had been behind what happened to him, kept quiet. He waited. He watched. But for now, the school carried on.

Exams were approaching fast, and the atmosphere grew tense, especially among the top-ranking students. The library became packed with determined faces buried in books, quills scratching furiously on parchment. Even Cael, known for his pranks and mischief, was suddenly buried in textbooks, flipping through pages like his life depended on it.

One afternoon, Cassandra cornered him near the Charms section of the library. Her arms were crossed, her tone sharp.

"You might want to start taking things seriously, prank boy," she snapped. "I'm going to be top of the class this year. You wasted half the year pulling stupid stunts."

Cael glanced up from his open book, a slow smirk creeping onto his face. "Is that a challenge?"

Cassandra's eyes narrowed. "You bet it is. You won't even come close to beating me."

Cael leaned back in his chair, the corners of his lips still curved with amusement. "Dream on, Cassandra . You've just made this interesting."

She huffed, spun on her heel, and stalked away, her blonde ponytail swishing behind her.

The system also said " I think she is obsessed with you" 

And Cael said, "Maybe she wants a friend, but her pride prevents her from building friendships. So, perhaps with this kind of behavior, she's trying to attract attention — hoping I'll approach her and say I want to be her friend — and then she'll become generous and accept my offer. Some lonely children use different ways to attract attention for friendship. Hermione Granger is the best example. When she first came to Hogwarts, she tried very hard to get noticed and make friends by telling every first-year how much she had learned and how she had memorized all the textbooks. This behavior made her seem like a show-off to her peers, but in truth, she was just a lonely girl who had been isolated by her classmates before, and now she was trying to prevent that from happening again — but instead, she ended up even more isolated."

Motivated by pride—and a little bit of spite—Cael buried himself in his studies. He spent late nights in the Room of Requirement, practicing spells, memorizing facts, pushing himself harder than ever.

Meanwhile, high above the castle, in the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore sat behind his grand desk, parchment scattered before him. Letters from the Ministry of Magic lay unopened, another request for advice from the newly appointed Minister.

As he reviewed the papers, the door creaked open, and James Potter stepped inside.

Dumbledore looked up, a faint smile beneath his silver beard. "Ah, James. Come in, sit."

James took the chair opposite, his expression thoughtful.

"How are you finding the teaching?" Dumbledore asked, pouring tea into two cups. "Enjoying guiding young minds?"

James chuckled softly, accepting the tea. "It's… good, actually. The students are sharp. Some more than others," he added with a knowing grin. "Plenty of mischief-makers too. Takes me back."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his half-moon glasses. "Yes… it feels like only yesterday I was teaching Transfiguration to students like you. It's a complicated art, but the young ones surprise me every year."

James nodded, the smile fading slightly as his mind wandered. "Next year… Harry will be here."

There was a quiet pause. Dumbledore's voice softened. "Indeed. When the time comes, he'll walk these halls. He'll make friends, learn magic… just as you did."

James met the old wizard's eyes, hesitation creeping onto his face. "That's what I came to talk about."

Dumbledore folded his hands on the desk, patient. "You're worried."

"I am," James admitted, voice low. "I know this school. I love this school. It's where I met my friends… Lily… where everything started. But you also know who's still out there."

His voice cracked ever so slightly. "He's still out there, and my son—my children—they'll have targets on their backs the second they step into this castle."

Dumbledore's gaze was steady, understanding. "James… Hogwarts is not without danger, but it's still the safest place for them. Here, they'll be protected—by the professors, by the wards, by those who love them."

James shook his head, running a hand through his messy hair. "I can't lose them, Albus. I almost lost Harry once already. I see him, growing up, and I think… maybe I should take him and Lyra away. France, maybe. Beauxbatons… somewhere far from here."

Dumbledore's voice grew firmer, though still kind. "Running doesn't guarantee safety, my boy. You know that better than most. Voldemort's reach doesn't stop at borders. If they are far from here, isolated, without the protections this castle offers, they will be even more vulnerable."

James looked down, his knuckles white around the tea cup. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I just want them to have a normal life… friends… classes… Quidditch matches… not the constant fear."

"And they will," Dumbledore assured him gently. "They will face trials, yes… but they'll also find joy, laughter, love… the very things you found here."

James let out a shaky breath, finally raising his eyes. "You really believe that?"

"I do," Dumbledore replied firmly. "And I believe Harry, and Lyra, will not walk alone. You, your friends, myself—we will guide them. Their strength will not come from fear, but from the people who stand beside them."

James's shoulders slumped slightly, the fight leaving him bit by bit. A small, hopeful smile ghosted across his face. "I hope you're right. For their sake… I really do."

"They're Potters," Dumbledore said softly, with a spark of humor. "If they're anything like their father, they'll be just fine."

James chuckled, wiping his eyes discreetly with the back of his hand. "Let's hope they're a little more sensible than I was."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "One can only hope."

The room fell into a quiet, thoughtful silence, the shadows of the past lingering—but so did the light of what could still be.