Sansa knew NEWT level magic wouldn't be easy; however, she had expected it to be easier than this.

Her focus was lacking. Professor Baelish's advice drifted through her mind; "a happy memory, like a family holiday, your happiest birthday, even a first kiss." Sam was too busy copying down his every suggestion to notice the way the professor's eyes lingered on Sansa.

Deep breath, she told herself. She thought of Arya's laugh as they had a snowball fight. "Expecto patronum," she whispered. Not even a wisp; Robb had been on Sansa's team, getting pelted by more than his fair share of snowballs.

It seemed that all of her happy thoughts were tainted by a grim outcome. She remembered how happy she could be when her mother would braid her hair at the beginning of each day, telling her stories about her girlhood, or how she fell in love with Sansa's father.

Everyone told her how like her mother she was, fair with copper hair, kind, and clever. Her mother was a Gryffindor when she attended Hogwarts, some suggested her bravery was her downfall.

Her happiest memories of her father were just as bad. Ned Stark patiently taught her how to ride a broom before school started; when she was scared to take flying lessons with other students. He brought her to the Ministry of Magic some days and she watched with rapt attention as he passed laws up to the minister himself. Ned Stark taught her how to make just decisions, he was always sure to be the one who told the accused of their punishment.

She never let herself think about her parents for so long. Pushing the tears back she tried to think of something else, anything else.

Arya was flying in this weekends quidditch match. Gryffindor against Slytherin, the last time they had played was the dirtiest round she had ever seen. Joffrey Baratheon had nearly knocked Robb off of his broom; Arya, who was searching for the snitch, whipped her broom around so fast it was a wonder she stayed on. She grabbed a beaters club and knocked Joffery unconscious.

Arya had insisted on flying as soon as she had seen a quidditch match at the age of four. Robb had relished in having someone who wanted to fly as much as he did. Sometimes Jon would join in, playing keeper for the pair.

Jon.

He was a bright spot in many of her memories, despite his sad story. Her father brought him to stay after Rhaegar Targaryen was brought before the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for setting a muggle village ablaze. Jon was not likely to be welcome at the Targaryen home once his father was gone. His mother was a muggle woman who died, and the Targaryen's were a proud, and pure magical line. Jon would never have their name, just their blood.

He was a quiet presence, but he always knew where he was needed. He would spend time with Bran, sitting on the ground for hours talking about things from Hogwarts, or books they had read. Sometimes Sansa thought Arya loved Jon more than she loved her own sister. He and Robb were shadows of one another, where one was the other was close behind. Jon knew how to quell Rickon's worst tantrums. He would hold Rickon tight as things burst around him.

Sansa hadn't truly appreciated Jon until she was in her second year at school. She heard the voices from down the hall and was shocked to see Jon hurling a curse at a sixth year from his own house. Behind him was Samwell Tarly, a Ravenclaw. She knew Jon could perform curses beyond her imagination, how could he not? She'd never seen magic used so effortlessly.

Sam had approached her the next day wondering if she would thank Jon for him. Jon may not have intended to foster a new friendship, but he had. Sansa and Sam were in the same year and she was happy to have someone to share her course-load with.

Sam couldn't help her with her patronus. If Sam knew she was struggling he would go to Jon. If Jon realized how unhappy she was it would break his heart.

Jon. Jon. Jon.

She took a breath. Jon studying with her when no one else would. "Expecto Patronum." An opaque silver mist came from her wand. Not enough.

"Sam said you're struggling with your Defense Against the Dark Arts." Jon had sat in silence at their study table before he broached the subject.

"Sam should mind his own business." Sansa snapped back. Jon's frown creased his brow. "Sorry," she said softer. "I just can't get it and Sam can hardly do it himself; you have NEWTs coming up and shouldn't have to deal with my problems too, not here."

She and Jon had taken on the responsibility of keeping up the Stark home when they weren't at school. During the year Rickon stayed with Sansa's aunt Lysa. Sansa knew Jon was going to take whatever job he could find so he could keep track of Rickon on his own next year.

His hand covered hers, "I want to help."

How could she tell him there was nothing he could do? She was broken, all of her thoughts linked back to her dead parents, her dead brother. "We'll think of something," he promised. No explanation needed; he understood. She felt his lips against her forehead, reassuring her.

"What do you think of?" she whispered. "I know you can make one," she had only considered the question too personal for a minute.

"I think of home. The things we had, the things we have now; I think of Arya, Bran, and Rickon, who we have left." His answer was so quick, so sure it startled her into silence. Jon rose and took her hand. He led her into an empty classroom; she could feel a blush blooming on her cheeks. Most witches use empty classrooms for something other than practicing magic.

Staring at Jon's silhouette in this room she understood the appeal. He'd grown into a good man, his upbringing shaped him in the best way.

Jon protected her younger siblings as though they were his own; he defended people who couldn't defend themselves. He had kept all of her secrets, even the ones she had confessed in front of the fire after the funerals. How horrible Professor Baelish made her feel, about all of the times and reasons Joff had hexed her. No matter how terrible they were or how badly they reflected upon her he never judged her.

"Ok, show me what you can do."

She stared at him and said the incantation. Wisp. Nothing.

"What were you thinking of?" He removed himself from his post against the window.

"Eating lemon cakes with Rickon in the summer." Cakes her mother had made especially for her.

"It's important to remember them Sansa, but they aren't ghosts. Don't let them haunt you." He held her face gently in his palm. "They want you to be happy."

Her heart was racing being so close to him. A blush was creeping up his neck, curious. "Will you show

me yours?" she asked softly.

Jon sputtered, "wh-what?"

"Your patronus, will you show me?"

He had stepped back, and now he seemed miles away. "Ok." His face was returning to its natural color.

With the flick of his wand he conjured a corporeal, silver wolf. It cantered toward her and nudged its head through her hand before it dissolved.

"What were you thinking of?" Her eyes were locked on the spot where the wolf had been.

"You,"

And suddenly she was kissing him. In the dark, empty, moonlit classroom Sansa pulled Jon's face to hers. His beard scratched against her face when he kissed her back, her face tenderly cupped in his hands. He pulled away and rested his forehead against hers, "I believe in you." He stepped further away.

Feeling lighter than she had in the last year Sansa gave her wand a wave. A solid silver mass emerged and startled her. A wolf of her very own.

Her wand fell to the floor as Jon lifted her off her feet. "Thank you," she whispered into his neck.

"You didn't need me."

"I know, it's just nice to know you're here."