Chapter 2: The lonely professor

The early light of morning bathed the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom in a soft glow, breathing life into the old stones of Hogwarts. Harry Potter leaned back in his chair, eyeing the ungraded essays piled neatly on his desk. He cherished this time of solitude before the school's ancient halls brimmed with the bustle of eager young minds.

Once, these very walls had whispered of destiny and danger to a much younger Harry. Now, as a professor, they stood as silent witnesses to a different chapter of his life, one less fraught with peril but tinged with a solitude he hadn't anticipated.

His thoughts wandered to Ginny. She lived in a world that revolved around Quidditch, her spirit as free as the wind that carried her above the cheering crowds. Harry had always admired her zeal, the way she chased her ambitions with a fervor that was as admirable as it was all-consuming. Yet, that same zeal had widened the gap between them, her world growing distant from his own.

In the stillness of the classroom, Harry felt the weight of their growing apart, the silence between them more profound than the absence of words.

He pushed the thoughts aside as the echoes of student laughter floated up from the Great Hall, a gentle reminder of the life pulsating through the castle. Standing, he straightened his robes, brushed

off the last vestiges of doubt, and readied himself for the day's lessons.

Students began to fill the room, their youthful energy a stark contrast to his reflective mood. Harry greeted them with a smile, ready to impart wisdom that couldn't be distilled into ink and parchment.

The first strains of laughter bubbled through the air as Harry ushered his third-year students into the center of the room, where an old, ornate wardrobe stood—a relic from many years past. Today's lesson was on Boggarts, creatures that twisted into one's greatest fear, and it was Harry's favorite to teach. He felt an electric excitement in facing fears and learning to laugh in the midst of them.

His own voice carried a warmth and vitality that resonated in the expectant air. "Boggarts are shapeshifters, taking the form of what we most fear," he explained, a smile touching his lips at the sea of wide-eyed faces. "We counter with 'Riddikulus,' a charm powered by laughter, a rare but powerful defense."

He watched them, their youthful faces a canvas of mixed emotions—eagerness and apprehension dancing in their eyes. It was a profound moment, Harry thought, to face one's fears in such a public manner, to learn that even a deep-seated dread could be met with resilience.

"Who's up for the challenge?" he asked, his voice lifting above the whispers. A hand sprung up—a testament to Gryffindor bravery—and Harry's nod was both affirmation and encouragement.

The classroom brimmed with a mix of nervous excitement and anticipation as Colin stepped up. His peers huddled around, casting curious glances at the old wardrobe that contained their shape-shifting adversary. At Harry's encouraging nod, Colin brandished his wand.

Harry flicked his wand and the doors burst open, and the boggart leapt out, morphing into a towering, growling werewolf. Murmurs of alarm rippled through the young crowd, yet Colin remained steadfast, locking eyes with the beast.

"Focus, Colin. It's just an illusion," Harry reminded him with an assuring tone. "Turn your fear into something funny."

Inhaling deeply, Colin summoned his resolve and shouted "Riddikulus!" picturing the ferocious creature hilariously attempting to skate on roller skates. The transformation was instantaneous; the once fearsome werewolf was now flailing comically, skidding across the floor with a clatter.

Laughter bubbled up from the students as the werewolf's threat dissolved into slapstick comedy. Harry's lips twitched into a smile, seeing the boggart's frightening image lose its grip under the power of mirth.

"Well done, Colin," Harry commended, as a round of applause broke out, with the boy's face beaming from his successful conquest.

"Who's ready to go next?" Harry looked around, and another eager hand darted into the air. One by one, each pupil confronted and transformed their personal terrors into absurdities, the room filling with laughter and light-hearted cheers.

Amidst the levity, Harry's heart swelled with pride. Here were his students, facing down their deepest dreads, learning an invaluable lesson: the darkest of fears lose their hold when met with courage—and sometimes, just the right touch of humor.

Laughter receded and footsteps grew faint as the throng of students dispersed, lured by the evening's feast awaiting in the Great Hall. Harry savored the stillness that now blanketed the classroom, a stark absence of the day's youthful exuberance. With practiced ease, he began to tidy the space, erasing traces of the afternoon's activities with deft wand movements. The cabinet housing the boggart was securely fastened, desks were set in neat rows, and the blackboard cleared of its powdery vestiges.

The remainder of the day was his own, a rare gift of time he had not anticipated. The pile of essays that needed grading flickered in his mind, but he pushed the task aside, choosing instead to relish this pause in his otherwise scheduled existence.

Opting for a change of pace, Harry decided to bypass the Great Hall in favor of a quieter dinner. He made his way to the greenhouses, where he knew he'd find Neville, who preferred the solitude of his plants to the hustle and bustle of communal meals. The greenhouses, with their glass walls bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, promised a peaceful refuge and the company of an old friend.

Harry meandered through the tangle of verdant leaves and vibrant blooms of the greenhouses, spotting Neville lost among a jungle of his own making. "Hey there, Neville," he said, offering a nod steeped in the familiarity of years of friendship.

Neville glanced up, his features alight with a welcoming smile. "Harry, what brings you to my neck of the woods?"

Opting for a change of scenery, Harry suggested they have dinner there, and with a snap of his fingers, a house-elf whisked over with a tray laden with sandwiches, vanishing as quickly as it had arrived.

As they tucked in, Neville's expression turned thoughtful. "I've not seen much of Ginny lately... how is she?"

The question was like a blip in Harry's otherwise steady composure, his movement halting for a split second. "Oh, she's... immersed in the world of Quidditch," he responded, the tightness in his voice barely perceptible before he redirected the conversation to a lighter topic.

"Today's lesson was quite the spectacle," Harry recounted, a smile playing on his lips. "The third years had their first go at a boggart. Pandemonium would be putting it mildly."

Neville let out a hearty laugh. "More chaotic than a greenhouse full of Mandrakes?"

"You haven't seen chaos until you've seen a spider in ballet shoes being chased by a dozen third years," Harry quipped back, and they both shared a good-natured laugh.

He recounted the day's antics, from students' comical fears to the unwarranted dread of long-gone professors. Laughter filled the space, a bright reminder of their days as carefree youths within the castle walls. For a fleeting moment, they were just Harry and Neville again, two friends sharing jests, far from the complexities that their roles in the world now demanded.

The remnants of their shared amusement lingered as Harry glanced at his watch, "Time for me to get going," he said, the playful note in his voice softening. "I've got a pile of essays that won't grade themselves."

Neville gave a sympathetic nod, his gaze briefly meeting Harry's. "The work of a Hogwarts professor is never done," he remarked with a half-smile.

Pushing back from the table, Harry stood, feeling the familiar tug of his responsibilities reclaiming their hold. "Thanks for the company," he said, and with a friendly wave, he left the warmth of the greenhouse.

A silver glow sliced through the tranquility of the evening, casting long, dancing shadows against the ancient stone walls of Harry's office. He had just capped his quill, the last of the student essays neatly stacked, when the figure of a horse burst through the open window, its form shimmering with a ghostly light.

Ginny's Patronus, a spectacle of magical luminescence, pranced in the air, carrying with it her voice. The message was infused with a mix of victory and regret, "Harry, won't be home tonight—the match was ours, and celebrations are in order. Miss you. Let's catch up soon. Love, Ginny."

The glowing messenger faded away, leaving behind a hushed room, now seemingly emptier than before. Harry stood motionless for a moment, contemplating the silent message hanging in the air. His heart swelled with pride for her win, yet a whisper of solitude crept through him like a shadow at dusk.

With a contemplative gaze, he approached the window, the night's canvas sprawling endlessly beyond. Stars twinkled back at him, indifferent spectators to the victories and defeats of the world below. Somewhere out there, Ginny was basking in the glory of her success.

Harry closed the window, sealing out the chill of the night, and headed to bed, as waiting was now pointless.

The moon was a silent observer to the quiet struggle within Harry's heart. The bed beside him, with its undisturbed pillow, seemed to mock his loneliness, a sharp contrast to the nights filled with soft murmurs and shared dreams.

He missed her. The room felt too large, too empty without her laughter bouncing off the walls, without her fiery spirit filling the space. Memories of their closeness flickered in his mind, now bittersweet, sharpening the pang of solitude.

Ginny was out there, basking in her victory, surrounded by teammates who shared her passion for the game. And here he was, cloistered in the quiet castle, his companions reduced to scrolls of parchment and the fading echoes of his students. He felt grounded, too static, while she seemed ever more elusive, like trying to hold onto the tail of a shooting star.

With a weary sigh, Harry retreated from the window, the night's chill pressing against the glass. The pride for his wife's achievements was real, as tangible as the ache of her absence. As sleep finally claimed him, it was to the cold comfort of pride mingled with longing, his heart heavy with the weight of another night apart.