Archive of Our Own

Small Wondrous Things

As he stood by the tall doors of Hogwarts’s Great Hall and let the blur of young voices and candle warmth envelop him, Galavant Knight realized that he had waited for this moment all his life.

Not that it came as a grand surprise; he was still a toddler when his father – always draped in long, exotic robes, smelling of cardamom and sulfur and magical things, especially in their small suburban cottage – told him what he was going to be: a Gryffindor, my boy – and a warrior, and a fighter, and a brave good man. And one day, I know it, you’ll be what every warrior, fighter, brave man should aspire to be. A teacher, in the best School of Magic in the whole world.

Galavant had taken in it all with a gaping mouth, eyes wide, impossibly wide to catch every single detail of that moment. He would remember every color in his father’s hazel eyes, the same of Gal’s. He would remember every word, carved on the inside of his chest. He had never forgotten, not through his school years, not when Dad left the small suburban cottage and didn’t come back. Galavant had earnt a mission and it was higher than his father, higher than bitterness. Gryffindor, warrior, Auror. And now, the Great Hall doors, his documents tightly folded in his right sleeve, and a title he could barely compute next to his name without getting his tongue wrapped up.

Professor. A teacher.

Having a prepared fate hanging over you would have been overwhelming for some, but not him; actually, he had always found it somehow comforting. What many people didn't grasp was that following his Father’s golden steps and fight evil wasn’t something he had to do; it was something he was born to do -since he was twelve, since he was six.

Galavant tried hard to stop gloating in the middle of the Hall like the last of morons. He was a Professor now. He was going to make an entrance, a good, dashing entrance in the Hall, late enough to stand out, not enough to be disrespectful, and that would be it. The beginning of a new life. The beginning of almighty years of help and wisdom and adoring little minds seeking his advice. The first line, son, his father said in his head, the first line of a story is often the one people will remember.

Gal took a long breath. Then he straightened, smiled, and walked through the Great Hall’s doors.

And saw his entrance being completely ruined.

"Oh bullocks! Those blasted stairs!"

Gal froze, mid-step. A thin man dashed under his outstretched arm and shuffled past him, managing to trip on his robes and his scarf at the same time. Gal had barely the time – or the will, as he silently waited for the humiliation to choke him to death - to glimpse a blur of black clothes, a mess of grey hair, Ravenclaw colors.

The man stopped two feet in front of him, and furiously whipped his head towards the Teachers’ long table. “Gare! Why didn't you tell me the Third Floor stairs had swirled again?”

“I told you three times!” growled a big, angry-looking man with a shaved head and mighty muscles bulging under his sleeves, sitting next to an empty chair at the Teachers’ table.

“Well I don't think so,” the thin man countered. He stomped a foot on the floor. "If it wasn’t for Vince’s brave intervention, I’d still be spinning on the stupid chunk of rock.”

“And what a loss would that be.”

“Say what you want, but it's still all your fault.”

The bulky Professor threw his hands in the air with a defeated sound. Gal stole a quick glance around the Hall. Surprisingly enough, no one either among the students or the Professors looked surprised in the least. A witch among the teachers was inspecting her nails, some Hufflepuff kids were bargaining muffins – the Ravenclaw table was smiling with a sort of resigned affection. Actually, it looked like Dumbledore was hiding a grin somewhere in the beard.

Ah, I got it. Must be a dream. Like the one about walking in the Forest in my boxer. Yep. Only explanation.

“Enough.” Professor McGonagall - uh, maybe he should stop calling her like this, Gal distantly mused – silenced both men with a glance. She slowly turned to the grey-haired intruder. “Professor Kingson, we're happy you managed to find the Great Hall. This time too. Now please reach your seat.”

Professor Kingson . The word resounded in Gal's head like a silver gong, leaving him slightly dizzy and utterly horrified. Professor? That man – the idiot who managed to lose himself in the castle, arrive late at the Opening Banquet and act like a whiny child about it - was a Professor? Galavant let his frenzied eyes wander again, checking if he hadn't missed a more suitable being. Like a Domestic Elf. Or an exceptionally talented plant. But no, the thin man was actually hopping towards the Table with a very offended expression on his face. He rearranged his long black and blue scarf, stiffly, and slipped on the seat by the big man with poncey indifference. The other didn't look all that impressed.

The silver gong in Gal's head rang louder, three, five times. He felt his jaw getting disjointed and falling by his feet as every drop of blood in his body rushed off his head. Things were not making any sense. For the first time since his five-years-old self made his mother's car levitate in the Walmart’s parking lot, the Magic World was shocking Galavant Knight.

And the only sure thing he could think of was that his entrance was hopelessly behind repair.

By the time Gal managed to take a breath that didn’t get stuck itself in his throat, he realized the Hall had gone eerily quiet, and that he was still standing by the doors. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, unsure what to do with himself. He should have listened to Izzy. He should have gone to his room and prepare properly and play itcool. Play it cool, Galavant – you know what it means, right? Oh my that had been stupid. That had been the epitome of stupid. Eyes began to shift towards him. A bunch of Slytherin kids snickered one of the mean things every generation of Slytherins had whispered about Gryffindors. Even Professor McGonnagal and the strange thin man were peering at him.

Dumbledore stepped in after an excruciatingly long moment.

“Ah, how wonderful,” he chirped, “It seems like the blasted stairs brought us two Professors, no less! Professor Knight, thank you for having brought back Professor Kingson. It seems you're already making good use of your famed skills.”

Gal swallowed. It was a ridiculous and unjustified praise, but it did gather some chuckles around the hall. Gal put on his face a bad version of his Dashing Smile.

Dumbledore turned towards the hall tables and gestured towards him, half-moon glasses shimmering in the candlelight.

“Well, looks like I should take the chance and make some presentations. Dear students and colleagues, I would like for you to meet Professor Galavant Knight, ex-Auror, proud Gryffindor, and quite a legend in School Quidditch I must say. He would teach Defence Against the Dark Arts in the upcoming year. I expect you all to absorb as much as possible from his vast and exceptional expertise, like the good dutiful sponges you all are.”

More chuckles, more benevolent than before. Gal babbled his thanks, but knew better than taking the chance to brag. Dumbledore had been his Headmaster too, and he had the keen feeling he perfectly recalled his Toilet incident in Fifth Year. It was better not to meet the look behind those shimmering glasses.

“Very well, Professor Knight. Please, come here and take a seat. We should better start with the nosh-up before my students decide to gnaw tables.”

Gal scampered up the dais, the tips of his ears burning like dragon's eggs. He slipped on the last free seat at the table, between Professor McGonagall and a dainty witch with lush auburn hair and a firm scowl on the face. The scowl seemed almost entirely caused by lack of food, because as soon as Dumbledore declared the banquet beginning she had a pork leg half-stuffed in her mouth.

Gal, instead, took advantage of the moment of peace brought my roast beefs and steaming pies to give his first true look at the Hall. It felt absurdly strange to be on this side. From there the Hall was still majestic and rumbling with voices and power and floating, cracking candles, but it looked smaller. The tables were not as long as he remembered, and even the Slytherin one was not that far from the Gryffindor one. He had the impression he could hold it all with a single hand, all of them, all these kids eating and fighting and laughing, all depending on him. From the Teachers’ Table was impossible to forget how many kids they were supposed to guard. Gal suspected it was one of the many reasons Dumbledore set things that way.

That train of thought had the tragic side effect to make him think about his disastrous first impressions – and about the thin moron responsible for it, sitting two seats down him. Inconspicuously, he leaned towards Professor McGonagall’s ear.

“Err, Minerva-“

Her glare could have easily killed a basilisk.

“Young man, what makes you premuse you can use that name?”

“Ah, I, oh, sorry, I. S-so, McGona-“ A second glare, and Gal winced, “-I mean, Professor. Professor McGonagall.”

-That is better. What were you saying?-

-Well, I was wondering. The…” dork didn't sound appropriate, “…man with the Ravenclaw scarf I met by the doors. Is he really a teacher?”

She nodded. “Of course he is. Professor Kingson is our Professor of Charms.”

“And he is a Ravenclaw?”

“Well, quite obviously. What else should he be?”

“I don't know. A Hufflepuff, maybe.”

He knew he had said the wrong thing the moment he closed his mouth.

Professor McGonagall’s mouth was a tight white line. “You should stop bragging like a foolish Gryffindor fifth-year, Professor. It doesn’t suit you.” On her lips, Gryffindor fifth-year did sound like an insult. “And do not rely too much on appearances. There are unexpected lights and shadows in Professor Kingson.”

"Very unexpected."

His ex-Professor shot him a second glare. Galavant conveniently sank back in his seat, but couldn’t keep his eyes off the object of their conversation. Kingson was still talking with the bulky man, but the offended expression was gone – he was laughing merrily, trying to smash a fat slice of blueberry pie on his companion’s nose, all irritation forgotten. He was so busy he apparently forgot to swallow, and choked on a bite of meat till the bulky man patted his back with a stream of curses. Gal felt his lips pull back in chagrin.

Extremely unexpected.

*

In the following days Gal managed to clear things up. Talking with Madalena, the Slytherin witch with auburn hair, he discovered Professor Richard Kingson was the heir of one of the oldest Wizarding families of the Magic World, and indeed watching him it was impossible to think he had familiarity with any Muggle object. It was impossible to think he had familiarity with any kind of object. In three days he had heard a thunderous crash followed by Kingson’s voice at least five times – an occurrence the students fondly dubbed “Professor K.’s Ballet”. Despite his bird-like bones and bouncing steps, Kingson was the most ungraceful person Galavant had ever had the questionable privilege to meet.

Obviously, they pulled a lot of strings to put him in a prestigious position, and one where he couldn’t make horrible damages -the chances to behead someone during a Charms class must be pretty low. How he had managed to be sorted in Ravenclaw was still a mystery, but probably there was a way to cheat there too.

The bulky man Kingson had accused on the first day was way more interesting. Gal discovered his name was Gareth Guardmate and that he taught Herbology. The idea of that wardrobe of a man bellowing at terrorized first-years how to handle delicate blossoms and curing trembling flowers had amused Gal to no end. He spent most of his free time with Kingson, and he seemed to act like a sort of human shield against the other's clumsiness: he closed doors Kingson was going to slam against, make him turn at the right time, shove him out of the way before he could barrage poor students. Galavant couldn’t wrap his head around any good reason such a man should waste his talents with that skinny thing, at least until Madalena (while gorging on a pile of bacon and eggs at breakfast) told him in her hissing tones that the Guardmate had been at Kingson’s family’s service for centuries. So, Gareth was the last of a series of extremely unfortunate bodyguards. Still, it didn’t explain everything. To Gal there was something more about the unlikely duo – a bond, a true bond, nevertheless. He was not Gryffindor-fifth-year enough not to admit he admired that.

Gal hadn’t spent all his day lurking behind columns, mind you. He didn't have the time. He loved his subject, and loved even more the awed looks he managed to force from that lovely bunch of teen jerks. A feisty Gryffindor sixth-year, Cedric Jordan -Gal believed his friends called him Sid- had become his right hand after Gal counter-enchanted the gargoyle statue that nearly chased poor Sid on his first Defence Assignment. Apparently, being saved from the angry knick-knack spanking you all around the classroom is an excellent way to choose your mentor.

All in all, things were going just fine. He had found Izzy, Divination Professor and ex-girlfriend and personal savior from his latent dickness. Professor McGonagall had yet to find a reason to scold him. Madalena apparently had forgiven him for the delay with her pork leg. Yes, Galavant was a very, very happy man.

But a play is made of many actors, and sometimes they nearly miss their entrances. Literally.

That morning Gal was almost late. He had spent most part of the night reviewing the Vampire chapter for the first-year lesson and by then he was sleeping so deep he missed the breakfast call. Now he was marching along the classroom corridor, stuffing toasted bread in his mouth while trying to decipher his previous evening notes. Maybe he could make some demonstration too, he munched pensively. A small transfiguration. Uh, kids gonna love-

"’et out of the wayyyyyyyyyyy!"

Gal froze on the spot, head snapping up and turning in the same breath. A cold knot crunched his stomach . Oh no, not again. For all that’s holy, not again.

It was too late. He had barely time to glimpse black robes and blue eyes and then a skinny, swirling mess smashed into him, sending both on the floor. Galavant fell flat on his back, head banging against the stone. Toasted bread and parchment papers fluttered all around them like frightened birds. A burning pain slashed through Gal's ankle with a soft snap. He heard a long, howling groan, and it took him a good three seconds to realize it was him.

Kingson, because the skinny, swirling mess was nothing but him, of course, sat up on Gal’s lap abruptly, straightening his sideways spectacles with all the shock of the world painted on his face.

"Oh, for Merlin's beard!" He squeaked. "I'm so sorry – so so sorry. All my apologies Galavant - I didn't see you. Again."

Gal closed his eyes, lungs still unable to work. He wondered if incinerating the Charms Professor would earn him a place in Azkaban.

Meanwhile the commotion had drawn attention: rows of curious students’ heads were peering through the classroom doors along the corridor, pointing, exchanging whispers. A scrawny nosey Ravenclaw shuffled by Kingson’s side and cleared his throat. "Ah, Professor Kingson, sir, are you alright?"

"Oh, Mister Chef!" Kingson blinded the boy with a shining smile, totally oblivious of the man he was still sitting on. "So it was my classroom’s corridor!"

"Yes, sir."

“And I was almost on time – wasn’t I Vincenzo?”

“Aaaah, aye sir. A very close call, sir.”

"Get off me, would you?" Gal hissed.

Kingson looked down at him like he had forgotten his presence and found the interruption absolutely rude. He pouted, scampering back on his feet, and tried uselessly to card his fingers through his hair. He still looked like Mom’s dust mop.

A frantic tap-tap of shoes echoed behind them and Gal almost flinched. The last thing he needed was Professor McGonagall, or Dumbledore, or Madalena walking on him playing bearskin rug. It turned out it was just Sid.

Thank Merlin for the small mercies.

"Sir! Are you all right?"

“Yes Sid – no problem. I’ve had worse,” Gal squawked, waving a hand nonchalantly – or as nonchalantly as a man could manage while sprawled on the floor.

His favorite student’s curly head came into view as he knelt by Galavant’s head. “I heard all the ruckus and, mh- ” Sid cast a furtive glance at Kingson, “-guessed. You need help to get up sir? Hurt anything?”

“No kid, don’t worry. I’m fine as ever, just look.” Gal sat up and stood with a stylish leap. And his ankle suddenly burst into flames. It was so painful he found himself passionately hugging an unlit candelabra, gasping for air. Hogwarts floor and ceiling swirled in front him for several, endless moments, his throat clutched with bile, the candle holder rattling as it and Galavant smashed against the wall. Sid’s arm swept under his own, and was the only thing preventing him from collapsing again. "Oh, damn." He wheezed.

"Seems like you injured your foot." Kingson stated cheerfully.

Gal’s head whipped to stare down the other professor, Sid hovering at his side - either to help him or to prevent him from murder. He clenched his teeth. His first-years were all looking from the last door, eyes wide and bated breaths. C’mon, Gal. He was an Auror. He was a Gryffindor. He couldn't hurt himself because of a half-his-weight idiot barreling into him.

"Ah, no, never - never mind. Just a, sprained ankle I think. I'll get some pills later and-" It would have been definitively more convincing if the next movement didn't make him double over in gasps.

Sid grimaced. "Sir, with all due respect, but I think you should go to Madame Chips, right way," He said. "Dad is a doctor, he knows this stuff. It would take just a second."

"The boy is right. C'mon, come with me."

Several pairs of eyes bulged out in sync. The remark had not come from a random appearance of Madame Chips, but from Kingson. He was standing in the middle of the corridor, one long pale hand outstretched. Gal contemplated it.

"Sorry?"

"My office is just around the corner." He frowned. "At least I think. Yeah, yeah, definitively on this floor. You can't get down to the Hospital in these conditions."

"Ah, no offence, Professor, but I'd much prefer professional help with my bones."

"Aw, c'mon! I teach Charms. It's a sprained ankle! There is no easier charm in the world,” he protested. Then he shrugged. “Moreover, I feel partially responsible for the accident."

"It's all your responsibility."

"Arguable,” he replied flatly. "However, please. Let me amend."

Galavant took in a breath, squared his shoulders, and thought very, very hard: images of endless stairs and Madame Chips’s cold, hard hands prodding his more than adult body warred with visions of horrid side effects growing on his foot, or his tongue, or his head. Who knows what that klutz could do to him, the man didn’t remember where’s his office is. Yet something had changed on the Charms Professor’s face. Gone was the nonchalance, gone was the pout – for the fraction of a second in front of Gal stood an adult man with bright blue eyes, and that did feel better than Madame Chips’ cold hard hands.

Gal gave a whine, a long, defeated sound. He cast Sid a pleading look.

"Tell the first year-"

"-that you've been called for a banshee emergency;” Sid nodded sternly. “Covered, sir."

*

Luckily enough, Kingson's office turned out to really be just around the corner. Sid had offered to help them there, but Kingson had brushed it off and sent him back to check on the first-year ducklings of Gal’s class. To no one’s surprise, he proved himself to be extremely useless as a crutch, but at least he genuinely tried to help. Gal appreciated the effort.

When they got in front of the tiny cherry-wood door, he realized he'd never seen Kingson’s office. Not that he would have any reason – or any right – to, yet it felt strangely upsetting, considering how great a part that little man had had in his thoughts for the few days he’d been a Hogwarts Professor. It made suddenly clear how little Galavant knew about him; how they were strangers, as it was expected from two random colleagues. The thought rang strangely upsetting, too.

The door wasn't locked; Kingson pushed the carved handle dragging Galavant in and told him to make himself comfortable. Gal let his poor Vampire notes and lecture scrolls fell on the rug. He slumped in the closest chair, a curious puffy thing covered in velvet, and let out a pained sigh. Kingson sent him a sympathetic look over the silver-rimmed spectacles, as he swirled around and started to shuffle through his bookshelves and his drawers.

Gal slowed his breath, waiting for the world to stop spinning madly, and gulped down bile. He would not throw up on the carpet, he would not throw up on the carpet for a stupid ankle. But holding himself still and stoic like a stone wasn’t working either. Instead, he took the chance to snoop a bit.

Kingson's office was surprisingly small, or maybe it was so cluttered with things it reminds more of a closet than a teacher’s office. A very comfortable closet, he must say. Cherry-wood bookshelves covered three walls from floor to ceiling, stuffed to the rafters with books, bunches of scrolls, upsetting jars filled with twitching eyes and colorful feathers and things he didn't really want to investigate. He noticed a volume of Magizoology, a series of Herbology exercise books with slightly charred ends, and a copy of A Voice From the Deep – Advanced Course in Archaic Goblinese. A large window opened on the fourth wall, directly across Gal’s chair, pouring morning light on a small desk and the collection of blue poufs and armchairs clustering every inch of the blue-and-violet carpet. Most of them seemed to work as makeshift tables for more knick-knacks and empty cups of tea. Dainty blue bowls, much alike the Chinese artwork he had seen with his Mom at the museum, clad every free surface. Peering closer, Gal discovered they were filled with sweeties.

"Oh, suit yourself." Kingson said over his shoulder. "I’m down to Beans and Beans alone, and I don't eat them. I keep them just for students.” He wrinkled his nose. “I'm too picky."

Gal didn't know how to answer and just muttered some poor excuse of a “thank you”. It had been decades since he ate student sweeties. He gingerly chose a fat red Bean and shoved it in his motuh.

Stinking Feet. Crap.

Meanwhile Kingson had extracted a large purple volume from the top shelf on the left; the book was so deeply wedged in between its companions the recoil nearly slammed the Professor against the opposite wall. He waltzed back to Gal, flipping through the pages. "So, ankle, right?" He fell plump on the pouf next to him. "Should be pretty easy."

Gal froze. "I thought you said you know what you’re doing."

"I know how to repair things, from pipes to cuckoo clocks," he replied with his eyes glued to the page, "And a foot is most surely a thing. I just need to check how it works."

"Oh. Err, sorry."

"Never mind. You’re not the first to doubt my skills. Nor the hundredth." He added in a soft voice. He recovered quickly, though, bouncing on his seat with a satisfied uhm-uhm. "Ah! Here it is, foot anatomy… heel, tendons, cartilage… yes, okay, pretty much like a pipe.” Kingson looked up from the book, shoving it, still open, on the nearest chair-turned-table. He turned to Gal with a bright smile. “Now, Galavant, take off hour boot and we'll be done in a sec. Put your leg on the pouf – aye, like this, very good. Now if you can push down the boot a little – yes, wonderful…. Here we are. All ready. And we, can, go."

Galavant knew there should be something disturbing in all that procedure, but somehow, he couldn’t worry. Kingson’s voice, when not whining or grumbling or complaining, turned out to be quite soothing – his smile reassuring. He found himself following the orders, carefully repositioning his ankle. Kingson slipped a slender grey wand from the robes' sleeve and gave a graceful tap on Gal's foot.

A wave of tingling coolness rushed up his leg, like little snowflakes dancing on his skin; he felt something popping loudly in his foot, but it didn't hurt a bit. When the tiny snowflakes faded, his ankle felt absolutely fine.

"Ah, and that’s it. Done!"

"You. You're right.” Galavant blinked, staring at his leg, frozen on the spot. “My ankle, it feels perfect. It doesn't hurt.” He gasped, blinking harder. “Oh my, it worked."

"Of course it worked,” Kingson replied in an indignant tone. He threw his hands in the air, the gesture eerily similar to Gareth’s reactions to his nonsense. "Ah, Gryffindor. Typical. It doesn't go boom, it doesn't work. "

Galavant leant back against the armchair. The tension was slowly dropping off his body, each knot in his shoulders melting like soft wax against a candle. He realized he had no desire to end the conversation with that bizarre man just yet.

He was dangerously close to enjoy himself.

"Boom things keep you safe, though."

"Mh, sure,” Kingson replied, sticking out his tongue. “Jocks! You wouldn’t recognize an authentic act of magic if it bites you in the arse.”

“I bet you weren’t exactly a popular Quidditch kid either, mh?”

“No, I wasn’t,” Kingson said. “I’ve never been grand at flying. And the first time I entered a Quidditch field I got struck by a Bludger and woke up two days later in the Infirmary.” He flinched, realizing the meaning of his words and Gal’s sly smirk at the same time. “Please, no jokes about the long-term effect of a Bludger blow. I think I’ve heard the whole spectrum of them.”

Gal laughed, an honest, bubbling laugh springing from his stomach and rolling through his body like a good pint of Butterbeer. Kingson smiled back, looking down at his knees – a dusting of pink spreading on his cheeks. In the clear morning light, his eyes looked way bluer.

“Laugh all you want, Gryffindor boy – but i bet my next trick will leave you speechless.”

“Oh really? And what would it- “

“Shhh. Just, look.”

Kingson’s lips curved in a grin – then he whipped his wand over Gal's fallen parchment. The scroll shuddered, thin blue threads spiraling across it, and suddenly it shattered in a million of floating scraps. In front of Gal's amazed eyes, the scraps rose in the air, swirling around with little frantic wings.

Galavant’s his jaw went slack, breathing forgotten. The tiny flying things were not scraps. They were paper butterflies.

Kingson giggled as they ducked to flutter around his head. "Pretty freakin’ cool, mh? I spent days mastering the technique. Consulted a whoooole lot of ancient Chinese mages’ notebooks, you know. "

Gal nodded, feeling his jaw drop further and not giving a damn. His parchment butterflies planed gracefully towards him, brushing his fingers with papery wings, and he couldn't help a giggle. He looked up with a smile.

"This is… cool indeed. And you were right – I should give more credit to magical things that don’t go boom. Thank you, Richard. You've been very kind."

Kingson stared back, and Gal's smiles must have lost all their charm, because his eyes suddenly widened like blue saucer plates. He jerked in his seat, hard, the pink dusting flushing redder - but in that moment the paper butterflies shivered mid-air. They dropped all around the armchairs in a white waterfall, lifeless.

"Ah, I, ah – ‘twas nothing. Nothing at all, really, you're welcome – very welcome – I was just, I mean -"

"You alright?"

"Sure I am," Richard said fast, "Why shouldn't I?"

He whipped his head down, shaking scraps of paper off his curls.

Gal shrugged it off. A butterfly had fallen on his shoulder too. His handwriting stood stark against the parchment of its left wing.

Gal talked in a very, very collected voice.

"Professor. It was my note paper you used for the butterflies, right?"

"Err. I think so."

"Perfect."

*

The ankle accident did change things. Kingson -that, as days passed, was becoming more and more Richard and less and less the ‘skinny moron’ - seemed to know an endless series of those little, enchanting charms. He knew how to fold waterproof paper airplanes, make Chocolate Frogs fly, how to turn milk sparkling, you'll thank me for that one day. One of his favorite tricks was to enchant Gareth's roast chicken and force him to chase gravy-dripping birds all the way down Professor table. Galavant had laughed so hard he had nearly chocked on his mead. Professor McGonagall had very discretely slapped both of them on their nape.

Gal discovered he could actually be quite funny. And that most of the times he was actually as distracted as he seemed. And that, against all expectations, he could probably be a remarkable wizard if he put his head to it.

Somewhere along the way they started spending intra-lessons time together, chatting a bit or grading homework while sitting in the vast, large-windowed Professor Room. Gareth was always hovering nearby. It felt curiously chaperone-sque, but Gal decided he didn’t really want to investigate.

One afternoon, they talked about family too. As most part of his Pureblood friends, Richard seemed completely baffled by Muggle everyday items. When Galavant told him about his lacrosse accident in fifth grade and the subsequent bizarre ways of Muggle A&E doctors, he laughed so hard Gal feared he was going to break a rib.

“He photographed your knee? And casting invisible incandescent rays through your body?”

“Well, it sounds worse than it is if you put it that way. Doctor Robson gave me a lollipop too, you see.”

“As a therapy? Does Muggle lollipops seal bones?”

“No, it’s…”

But Richard was smiling his wry smile, eyes twinkling behind the glasses. Gal found himself smiling too.

He told him about his Father, too – and the story of how he and his mother had met: few people can say their parents got together thanks to a dragon escapee, after all.

"A dragon? In the Muggle world?"

"Uh-uh. Apparently, they were transferring him to some Romanian reserve and he got scared as they were flying over Surrey. My mother was driving down a country road and had just gotten out to check the map when it ducked towards her, claws outstretched and fangs bared. My father swept her out of the way a moment before she got incinerated."

"Like a knight?"

"Yes. Exactly like that."

He gathered bits of Richard's past too. They were usually pleasant stories, funny stories, stories choked full with second-hand embarrassment, but under it all Gal caught something - an impression of freezing rooms, dusted clothes, and big spots of silence. Lonely children carried a mark. Gal knew it because he had been one himself.

"It was all very large, back at home. Large halls, endless corridors, fields I think I've never fully visited, dungeons, libraries. Everything so enormous and hard and cold. And, as you may have gotten, I'm not that good with getting my bearings. I spent most part of my childhood getting lost and being scolded for I've gotten lost."

Galavant sucked in a breath. They were walking around the castle’s grounds, enjoying the last warmth of Autumn before Winter cold kicked in, and Richard was talking in the low, slow voice he always adopted when he meant to say something serious. It was amazing how natural it felt to lean closer, listen harder, how well attuned to each other’s secret codes they already were. What Gal was thinking of, however, was not the voice – but the words. It was far too easy to imagine the lost skinny child Richard must have been – he was still there, in the angular shape of his shoulders, his soft features, the slim wrists he could easily hold with one hand. He didn’t like how close to surface that child was – how exposed to the world. He didn’t like it at all.

"I – I’m so sorry, Richard,” he finally stuttered.

"Mh, I’m not sure you should be. Mother had the lands to take care of, she hadn’t much time for us. The nannies were nice, but my brother was… way better than I was at being the centre of attention. Peculiar, considering how sneakily he had slipped off from the family business once he pocketed his part of inheritance.” A shade of rancor tinged Richard’s words, making his face harder. It melted away fast, though, and he hugged himself tightly, eyes distant. “Pope died when I was ten. It's a pity he never saw me getting into Ravenclaw."

"Is that why you chose that office of yours?" Gal asked, softly. “Because it’s so very small?”

"Aye." Richard said. "Small rooms are comfortable. They feel much less lonely than big ones."

Gal didn't say anything. They had reached the lake, all wrapped in its mists and its echoes, silver shadows flashing in the dark water and flocks of students lazing on the greying grass of the shore. Richard stopped, shoulders still hunched, gazing silently over the waves. He didn’t look all that different from the lost, skinny child in the silent house, Galavant thought. He shuffled by his side and brushed his sleeve before he could help himself, and Richard leant in the touch like it was the only natural thing to do.

*

Galavant was wolfing down the last remnants of his chocolate truffle when Professor McGonagall stormed in the Hall with a tight pale face. At his side, Richard and Gareth looked up from some banter of theirs. Every pair of eyes in the room converged on her like on a fiercely powerful magnet. She didn't bother to slow down.

Gal slowly put down his spoon. A chill rushed up his spine, drying his mouth, humming in his chest. Electricity running down his arms. Heartrate spiking.

The feeling was familiar like the palm of his hand.

"What is it, Minerva?" Dumbledore asked when she was in front of his seat.

She clacked her tongue, once. Her clever eyes swept around the room with contained, possessive unease. When in time of need Professor McGonagall seemed to forget not to act like a cat.

"A group of Dementors," she whispered. "On the North-West edge of the school grounds, by the forest. Apparently, they have escaped while collecting a new inmate and come here. The Ministry is already sending Aurors, but…"

"I see." Dumbledore gave a curt nod. "We'd better warn the students."

"Do you think it's safer for them to know?"

"Knowing is almost always safer." Dumbledore replied softly. The gilded vaults echoed silence. He rose behind the Table, silver robes rustling softly against the wood, and the Hall fell even quieter.

From their vantage point Galavant and his friends stared, holding their breaths as much as the wispy first-years exchanging fearful looks down the tables. Richard was looking pointedly at their Headmaster’s profile, face unreadable behind his spectacles. Gareth looked ready to murder the whole world, and leant in to put himself between Kingson and the door with a gesture too smooth to be conscious.

As for Gal, he felt his nerves burning and bristling under his skin. Ready to spring.

"Dear students," Dumbledore’s voice rose in the air, through the maze of floating candles and chocked whispers, "I fear we have to suspend tonight banquet right away. Professor McGonagall has just informed me a group of Dementors has been seen in Hogwarts' land. For the ones among you who do not know it, Dementors are Azkaban guards, and very dangerous creatures. I recommend you not to worry: the school walls have never let in one of them. I recommend you not to be bold either: don’t waste your bravery on such a prosaic threat. Now please follow quietly your Prefect back to the dormitories, and wait there for your Housemaster."

The long rows of students kept still and silent for a moment - and then they just exploded. There were cries, screams, some heads spinning wildly to check the windows, some of the older students wrapping comforting arms around crying children. But more than of a grand deflagration, all that noise reminded Gal of a thunder rumble; it filled the Hall low and solid, shattering in a million echoes – staggering, because they’re so many kids, so many kids in our hands. Gal gulped down air. He curled his hands around the table wood, trying to regain his composure, until he didn’t feel like shaking under that pressure anymore.

He watched with pride as the Gryffindor kids were the first to get up and align themselves behind their prefect. Something was amiss, but Galavant couldn't pin it down.

"Teachers." Dumbledore's words suddenly caught his attention. "I suppose you know what I'm going to ask you. Housemasters should go back to their Houses and keep watch. If anyone else is ready to volunteer, I would suggest to organize rounds around the castle."

The students were still swarming out; Professor McGonagall nodded curtly, exchanged a long look with the Headmaster and skidding away to the stairs, wand hold high like the imperious sword of a warlord. Gareth got up with a grouchy expression -well, grouchier than usual – painted on his face, whispered something to Richard and followed her. Out of Gal’s eye, Madalena’s velvet-clad figure rose from her chair too.

The imperious wand-sword flickered in irritation, urging them to hurry. "Housemasters, with me. Quickly."

Dumbledore slipped between the table’s seats as Professor McGonagall’s hat disappeared behind the doors. He took in the empty Hall with a glance. With a shiver of horror, Gal realized he was going to leave. Leave us here, alone. Useless.

Oh no. Oh no no no.

"Now I'm going to contact the Minister about precaution measures,” Dumbledore told them. “I’d like to know if the Auror gentlemen are due to arrive."

The Headmaster was turning, already leaving the Hall and the still somehow confused remaining professors, sitting rather stupidly in front of their half-finished desserts, and Galavant just couldn’t take it anymore. He shot on his feet, stumbling over himself to catch up with Dumbledore, face flushed, heart drumming in his chest, not really caring if he sounded like an overly-impatient child. He skidded to an halt like a car in hot pursuit.

"Sir!” he squeaked, barely forming the words before shooting them, “s-Sir, I - I'd like to, to. Volunteer. Volunteer for the rounds."

Dumbledore considered Galavant like he would do with a very peculiar talking giant Squid, -well, no, probably with much less enthusiasm- and Gal wanted to punch himself in the face.

"Very well, Professor Knight,” he said at last. "But do not worry. I had no intention to leave any of you with no task to fulfill. And I wouldn’t leave you in peril either, if you understand."

Gal beamed, barely restraining himself from bouncing on the spot. The nerves twitching under his skin weren’t humming anymore – they were buzzing, ten thousand charged coils.

Dumbledore saw something in his face. He furrowed his brows, shoulders tensed, and his voice dropped. It enchained Gal to the ground. "Professor, I would like to remind the people in this room that the main goal of this school is to protect the young lives the world has entrusted us with. This is more crucial than any great deed, heroism, or act of justice. This is what Teachers are here to do, and the reason they’re not Aurors. I’m confident you are aware of it?"

"Of course, sir," Gal answered sincerely.

Dumbledore held his gaze for a moment longer. It felt like seconds. It felt like ages. "Good. Then you can follow Professor Jewelee to the East Gate and reinforce the protections charms."

Gal twisted his head back, searching for Isabella, and when he found her she nodded back, her face flushed with battle too. He whipped back, feeling a blinding smile pull at his lips like a beam of sunlight shining through clouds. "Thank you, sir,” he all but squeaked, “thank you. You – you’ll not be disappointed.”

“I assure you I have no concern about you disappointing this old man.” Dumbledore cocked his head, that elusive grin hiding in the beard, and Gal’s Auror heart gave an excited twitch. "Good luck, Professor Knight."

Then the Headmaster gave them a nod, and glided gracefully out of the Hall. Gal’s smile threatened to cut his face in two. The moment was perfect. Solemn. Till a rustling of robes shuffled behind him, followed by a loud thud and a shrieking sound vaguely resembling a voice. Gal blinked. For a moment, he wondered if he had heard it right. But then a long-nosed, pale kid came rushing towards them. The kid was clad in Ravenclaw colors, and Galavant thought he remembered him from some lesson. He watched him bolt forward through the doors, trip on his robe, keep going. "Professor Galavant!" He shouted. "Professor Kingson!"

Richard followed his gaze, and slowly unfolded from his chair. "What is it Vincenzo?" Richard asked. "Gareth would kill you if he finds you out of the dormitory!"

The kid came to a hazardous stop beside them, too worn out to answer. He didn't seem terrified by the prospective - and that was worrying by itself. The nagging feeling that something was amiss tickled Gal's bones again.

Gently, he laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He was shaking. "What is it, son?"

"It's Sid." He gasped. "Cedric Jordan, the Quidditch speaker. He told me he wanted to go to the lake this afternoon, to study in peace and…and I… I think I didn't see him in the Hall tonight, Sir."

Gal felt his heart freeze – a knot of ice stuck under his ribs. The nagging feeling. Something amiss.

Sid.

Gal had to step back and leant against the wall not to crumple on the ground.

Oh, how stupid he had been, how stupid Galavant.

"You, you sure?" Richard asked.

Vincenzo swallowed hard. He had grown grayer since he walked in. "I think he's still outside, sirs. Outside with those things."

Silence fell. The teachers quieted. The candles flickered on pasty faces. The world was still and cold and dark. Everything stopped.

And yet, everything started.

Suddenly, Galavant Knight perfectly knew what to do.

Gal didn't even think. He simply started to walk, fast, and before he knew it he was storming in the North Gate’s direction, with Richard and Vincenzo scampering behind him.

"What are you going to do, sir?"

"I'm going to get my Student back," Gal answered. He was proud his voice didn’t break.

Vincenzo’s eyes widened, skin so pale he looked ready to faint in his Professor’s arms. "W-what? But the Dementors-"

"Kid, first, we aren’t sure Sid is in trouble yet. The Lake is in a completely different place from the Northern Forest. And then-" Galavant slowed down, turning to seek the scared student’s gaze. He took a breath. "…And then, I'm teaching you Defense against Dark Arts. My father has been an Auror and my grandfather before him and all the way to five generations. Defending is what I do. And I wouldn't wait here if I can do something out there."

As he talked, Gal discovered with a thrill of amazement he meant every word. He really wanted it. He really meant it. He would go out there and try to save a kid from those soulless monsters even if he had to give his life in exchange, and he wouldn’t hesitate. A part of him, a very small part he had effectively shoved in a drawer for years and that was still a lanky child unsure of his place, finally eased – finally let go of a breath he hadn’t know he was holding. I’m really this, it said . I’m really this.

Galavant looked at Vincenzo's wide-eyed face and felt a surge of warmth – a rush of something spreading through his body and fueling his steps. They could do this. He could do this.

Oh, Dad, I was right.

"Uh, fine," Richard grumbled. "Let's go."

They were down the corridor now, almost at the doors, leading out in impenetrable shadows. Gal stopped abruptly enough to nearly bump in the poor kid.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, let's go," Richard repeated slowly. "Luckily tonight I've found my wand."

Gal’s mouth had fallen open; it took him several seconds to realize it and close it with a clack. "Richard, you, you - this is serious stuff, okay? Dangerous stuff. I don't think you should come."

Richard straightened. His voice was very, very cautious – a promise of frost.

"I don't understand."

"I know, but -" Gal sighed, trailing off. He clasped his hands on Richard's shoulders, squeezing lightly. He felt so tiny under his touch, so breakable.

"Listen, Rich. This thing is not a game. Dementors are nasty, and dangerous, and people can get hurt for real. I don't think we could use paper butterflies or sparkling milk."

Galavant regretted his words almost immediately – but reined in the need to take them back, force himself to remember why they were true. It was still pretty awful, seeing realization spread on Richard's face like a silver spider-web. When he was kid, Gal had inadvertently kicked his Mother's bunny, a soft fluffy thing covered in grey fur; it had looked at him more or less the same way.

Richard said nothing. He took a step back, lips tight. "I, I'm not an idiot, Galavant."

"I'm not saying that," Gal grimaced. "Look Rich, I'm very sorry, but I can't. I must go and save Sid. I can't look after you too."

“Look after me,” Richard repeated, voice so soft it was barely audible.

“Yes. Just – stay here and look after the Protection Charms, okay? Stay safe. It’s for the best Rich. I swear.”

This time, Richard didn’t say anything. Gal sighed again – he was the first to look away. Then he turned, slowly, pushing the doors open. Richard's eyes followed him all the way down the pathway.

*

Hogwarts’s grounds were drenched in dark. Pale starks twinkled high above the forest; the soft hills of the castle's park sank in grey and black and blue, strings of mist pooling in their bends. The air felt cold and dry against his skin, much cooler than English December should be. Gal tucked his nose in his scarf and mentally smacked himself. It was just his mind playing tricks; just that. He had been an Auror, for Merlin's beard - it was not the worst predicament he had found himself in. Sid. He had to stay calm, head clear, hands firm. Sid was waiting for him. Sid, his dorky, doll-lover right-hand, sixteen years and lots of dreams, needed him.

He told me he wants to be an Auror. He told me he wants to be like me. Gal swallowed, waiting for his heart to stop racing.

He slowly started across the lawns.

For most of the way it was all very quiet. Not eerily so, however, as he could clearly hear owls howling over his head, and wind blowing through the castle's battlements, and the Forest’s trees whispering in the distance. The fog concealed almost everything five feet past his nose, but Gal had spent enough time lazing around the park he could get to the lake blindfolded. His steps fell in the mist, little white whirlwinds curling around his feet.

"Sid!" He called. "Sid! I'm Professor Knight. We may be in danger, so you better bring your arse here now."

No answer. Something wide and dark glimpsed on his side and Gal recognized the lake. The threads of fog here were thicker, hanging like ghostly hands over the water’s surface.

Gal took out his wand. It was a beautiful wand, strong oak wood, and a core of dragon-heart strings. In the starlight peering through the clouds, it flickered with caramel hues. It felt warm and steady in his hand.

Okay, Dad, here we go, he thought. Keep an eye on me.

"Lumos," Gal whispered. A soft butter glow came to life around his wand tip, pushing back the ghost hands. He turned right, walking along the lake shore. "Sid!" He called again. "Dammit, son, get back here."

No answer. No answer, but Gal did hear something: a patter, a shuffle of crunched leaves. It came from somewhere in front of him, behind a small grassy slope, covered in hoarfrost. Gal kept walking, restraining himself from breaking in a run. He scampered up the slope and put extra care in keeping himself under its edge. The shuffle grew and dimmed. Gal held the wand tighter and hopped on the other side. "Sid!” He shouted. The slope was big, steeper than he had thought and rimmed by rings of mist; a tangle of firs loomed on the opposite side. It was also completely empty. Galavant let his eyes sweep left and right, follow the rims and shadows and creases of the ground, but found nothing. Cautiously, he started down towards the pit of the slope. Nothing disturbed him as he fought his way down, his dainty leather boots sinking in mud.

"Sid-"

The shuffle stopped him mid-sentence. It was closer now, he could say it. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. Gal froze, lifted his wand, breathing hard. The shuffle got even closer - faster. He held his wand higher, aiming at the line of firs, trying to find a target. But the shuffle felt strange. It felt wrong.

It did not come from the trees.

Galavant realized it a second later, too late, too late.It’s coming, he thought, heart thundering, lips cold. Oh, God it’s coming-

"Professor Galavant!"

When Gal felt a cold hand dropping on his shoulder, three things happened in quick succession. He swirled around with a banshee-worthy shriek, a more piercing hail echoed in the night, and his wand tip very closely broke Sid’s nose.

They contemplated each other for several long moments. Then Galavant jumped back, face turning from white to purple. "What the Hell, Sid," he hissed, "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"Me?” Sid protested. “Is not me nearly frying his students in the dark!"

"Frying-?" Gal was almost speechless with outrage. "I called you a thousand times - why didn't 'you answer?"

"I was scared!"

"And you really thought lurking that way behind people was much bet- Ah, whatever." Galavant sighed, before smacking Sid on his head. Hard.

"Ouch!"

"This is for not coming back for dinner and roaming around this late." He specified, and smacked him again. "And this is for scaring me half to death and being a headless idiot.”

“Ouch! Professor Knight!”

“Hush. Now kid. Are you all right?"

"Y-yes." Sid mumbled. He was massaging his head with a surly scowl, but as surprise waned the gesture turned sheepish. “I'm very sorry, sir. I've practiced a lot with the Team and had History of Magic to study and I think… I dozed off at some point. Then I woke up and was all dark and... I don't know, sir. There is something bad tonight. Something very very, cold." Sid paled, blood rushing off his face. He wrapped his arms around his chest, shivering hard. "I'm pretty scared, sir."

"I know kid." Gal said softly. He opened his arms. Sid ran there and he held him tight. "But it's all right. I got you. ‘s all right. Just promise me you're not going to do something this stupid again, okay?"

Sid sniffed loudly, leaving a trail of snot on his jacket. “'Kay."

"Awesome.” Gal patted the kid’s head, stoically ignoring the jacket. “Now, take out your wand and we'll-“

"Sir." Sid's voice sounded strange.

"Yes, Sid?"

"Sir,” the boy hesitated, struggling for words. Then he asked, even more slowly, “Where, where have all the sounds gone?"

Gal frowned. He straightened, carefully listening to the night. Now that he thought about it, he didn't hear the owls calling anymore. Or the wind blowing through the barricades. Or the trees whispering in the Forest.

Actually, he couldn't hear anything.

Galavant stopped breathing. "Oh, shit."

Sid’s head whipped back to stare at him. "What is it sir?"

Gal gritted his teeth, head spinning with curses, plots - plans. If he sent back the kid and stood his ground, they could go after him. Keeping him here then. Sending an alarm charm for the castle. Hiding the kid and playing the bait. But he felt the cold creeping already on his skin, all the way to his bones.

There was no time.

Galavant had never been so close to tears in years.

He rose the wand in front of them and held Sid tighter. "Sid, whatever happens, stay behind me.” Galavant’s words coalesced in white clouds of cold. "Stay behind me. And think about good things, kid."

Sid shivered harder, but nodded, clasping against Gal’s back as they stared into the fog. In silence, they waited.

There was no sound announcing them; but the frost got more biting, the stars dimmed, and shadows surfaced in the mist. Old memories, of broken things and empty rooms and his mother crying in an empty bed, brushed the edges of Gal's mind.

Sid was breathing hard against his sleeve. "It wasn't my imagination about the cold things, right?" he whispered. "It wasn’t, right?"

"No, it wasn't. Think about good things, Sid."

Right then, the first Dementors emerged on the brim of the slope. Galavant had seen them one other time, and back then it had been just one. It glided on the ground quietly, with no frenzy, light as thought. Still, Galavant could barely look at it. It was like looking at a tear in the fabric of the world, and behind it there was nothing - not dark, not even death, just a spreading flawless nothing, reaching for their hearts. Sid flinched hard, let out a sob. Gal swallowed the lump of ice stuck in his throat and tried to concentrate. Count them, Gal. Don't think, count them.

He counted three Dementors crawling down the slope. Not bad. Not so bad. He could still make it. He hadn’t evoked his Patronus in years, but it's not something you’re likely to forget, and he still know what memory he would choose.

Just think about the Quidditch Cup, Gal. Lift your arm and. And.

The cold grew suddenly worse - so harsh Gal gasped. Moving was getting harder. He started shivering, blood draining from hands and face and feet. There were three Dementors in front of them, that was true, but now he saw he had not counted right. The shadows in the mist were suddenly four. Five. Ten.

There were ten Dementors sliding down towards them, silent and graceless, and Hogwarts was as far as the moon.

Oh God, Gal thought. We are going to die.

"Oh, no." Sid squeaked. He let out a sob. "Oh, no no no."

Gal knew he was supposed to say something, but suddenly he couldn't remember what. Get out. Get the kid out. The Patronus. He blinked, searching for focus, but he felt numbed, strangely disjointed. He kept the wand up, looking for the Cup Memory - but there were other days, other things coming up. Remember, remember. The Quidditch bleachers, his knee hurting and covered in field grass, the Cup in his hands, his father's smile. But no, what are you saying foolish kid. You did nothing. Dad is gone. He didn’t want you any more – Half-blood, Half-blood, Basileus Knight’s Half-Blood. Gal heard Sid whining and realized he had missed some moments. Get the kid out.

The Dementors were slowly swirling around them, coming closer. Gal forced down a gulp of air and pushed Sid to the opposite side, towards the lake. His back hit the slope wall. It was so cold he couldn't keep his teeth from chattering.

"Professor Galavant."

The Cup Memory was lost. His parents arguing, Dad’s back, fading in the night. Now you're a man, you must be brave, Gal, you must be brave. How stupid he'd been. How stupid he’d been, thinking he could take them down alone, being the grand hero. They were no monsters. They were no dragons. They were void. How do you fight void, foolish man?

His Patronus wouldn't come. He knew it.

"Professor Galavant."

"Run, Sid,” he stuttered. "Run and don't stop till you're at the Castle."

"But-"

"Run!" He can't make it. Yes, yes he can. Empty rooms, Mom’s crying, he wasn’t enough for Dad, he wasn’t enough. Gal's teeth chattered harder. "Go!"

Sid turned, clawing at mud and frost, but his hold was weak and he slid back, feet fighting against the slope like a dying beast’s. He whimpered, gasping. He watched Galavant with glazed eyes. They were lost. Gal fell on his knees, heart pumping, watching dark silent shadows descending on them, swirling, calling. The wand dropped on the ground. A hand with no flesh reached for him. Frost screamed in his veins, strangling the heat, crushing him like crumpled paper. Gal threw himself over Sid, shielding him from the reaching hand, squeezing his eyes shut.

In that moment, a bolt of silver exploded over their heads.

It was not exactly a bolt; but it flashed in the sky and arched over them, flaming, blazing with white fire, so bright the whole hollow filled with light. Gal gasped. The Dementors shrieked. The silver star plummeted to the ground, giving a long whistling sound. The light congealed in a shape, a shining horse, a long horn stretching from its muzzle.

It was a unicorn.

It was a Patronus.

The unicorn neighed, raising on its hinder legs, and charged through the shadows. The night filled with otherworldly screams, scraps of dark rushing around them. The cold in Gal's chest eased. Sid gasped. The Dementors hissed, the noise scraping with thousands of silver needles against his skull, but the light unicorn charged again, silver hooves stomping fiercely, mane burning blindingly bright. Gal felt warmth rush back in his veins. The dark shadows raised in the sky, screeching – the white-hot light chasing them away, up and up in the sky, until with a huge, final thunder of fire and magic, the Dementors vanished. Faded. The hollow was quiet again, drenched in delicate jewel-silver glow, and he and Sid were still alive.

The void was gone, and they were still alive.

Gal spent several seconds squashed against the ground, barely breathing, clinging to the shivering boy at his side with all his strength. The silver unicorn turned to them, gave a friendly whinny, and disappeared, twirling in a rope of light back to its owner's wand.

Gal followed it.

Behind them, on the brim of the slope, Richard put away his wand.

"Uuuuh! That was close, wasn't it?"

*

They decided to get back to the castle right away. Sid was still shell-shocked, clutching Gal's cloak with trembling hands, but the best course of action still seemed to be to reach Hogwarts and put as much distance as possible between them and any left Dementors. Sid didn't let go of him or look up for the whole walk. Gal couldn't stop stuttering questions and freezing halfway through them.

"I, what - I. That was. It was, a Pa -that was, was it-"

"A Patronus, aye," Richard answered. He hopped daintily over a bulging root.

"And how did you, we were, I mean how-"

"How did I find you two?" he asked. "Well, I was out by the lake and saw a flurry of Dementors and the flicker of a wand. Kind of hard to miss."

Gal pressed his lips together and kept trudging through the damp, muddy grass. He was tired, boneless, and fairly sure he would never feel truly warm again. Moreover, he felt dumber by the minute.

He waited for them to reach the next turn to open his mouth.

"I, I'm sorry I didn't let you come. I didn't know you had a, that you. Well, that you had a Patronus."

Richard cast him a sidelong look. "There are many things you don't know about me, Galavant.”

His voice was even and plain - yet it slapped Galavant like a whiplash. Richard's eyes burnt like distant stars behind the glasses. For the first time in the months they had known each other, Gal glimpsed all the things Richard Kingson could have been.

Oh Hells. Gal, you dumb arse.

He marched down towards the Castle's lights. Gal hobbled after him, making sure not to crush Sid in the process. "Richard. Richard, wait. That was, amazing. You took down like, ten Dementors in a row. I bet that would make Madalena spit out all that Butterbeer. You should teach Defense. Hells, you should be an Auror."

Richard walked faster. "I'd prefer not to talk about it."

"But you should. I’m serious Richard, that was amazing. I have never seen something like this. Wait for Dumbledore to know-"

" He already knows. Professor McGonagall too." He replied sharply. "He's been my Headmaster too after all, mh?"

The castle was less than one hundred feet in front of them; Gal felt like he could reach out and bottle up the small fires burning behind the embrasures like summer fireflies. The East Gate was filled with orange warmth, open wide, a tall figure with a pointy hat silently waiting for them. Sid was still clasped around his arm, but he wasn’t shivering that hard anymore. He gave him a squeeze, turning back to Richard. “I think you don’t understand the enormity of this thing. The possibilities. If you- “

"Oh, for Merlin’s Beard Gal!" Richard blurted out, flailing around in irritation as they reached the castle pathway. Gal instinctively shielded Sid from the flying, bony elbows of Professor Kingson. "Could you please just say the one logical thing to say and move on?"

Gal kept silent. There was something troubling Richard, and Galavant didn't want to trouble him. But Rich being Rich, he had no idea what the logical thing to say may be.

In the end, it was Sid who offered the solution. The kid felt the looming heat of the Gate – disentangled his head from the crook of Gal’s shoulder. He swirled back to Richard and bowed his head, bulging, grateful eyes searching his. "Thank you so much, Professor Kingson," he squawked.

"Ah!" Richard snorted, good-naturedly slapping Gal's shoulder. "Was it so difficult? You're welcome, young Sid. It seems someone still appreciates some resemblance of manners in that sweat-smelling testosteronal dump of your House."

Richard’s tone was light - nothing like a whiplash. Still it sounded vaguely off, a bit out of tune. Gal didn't feel up to investigate further. They were all right, – Richard too, still in one piece and breathing - the school was safe, his poor, poor figure had been circumscribed. No students harmed. No students dead.

He adjusted his hold on Sid’s arm, pulling him closer.

Thanks Merlin .

The figure waiting at the door was Professor McGonagall, of course. It took Gal a moment to remember she couldn't expel him anymore. She asked him questions, Gal answered coherently enough. Richard explained something too, but he wasn’t listening anymore.

Other voices around. Gal couldn't bring himself to care. The castle was so warm, so nice. He felt his eyelids slip closer, the world swallowed in a distant buzz. His knees, like perfect timers set to ring once in safe territory, buckled under him. The last thing he saw before crumpling on the bench lining the wall, Sid still attached, were Richard's long pale hands, a flicker of blue eyes burning like stars.

"Thanks, Richard,” Gal muttered, and then all went black.

*

The Dementors Accident got explained in clear and minute details on the evening banquet of the following day, and therefore lost much of his appeal as corridor gossip. Sid was discharged from the Infirmary the morning after with a therapy of happy things and lots of chocolate, and Gal lingered a bit further in the day only because he had no classes until the afternoon and Madame Chips’s beds were unbelievably comfy. Apparently spending most of the semester nights reviewing lessons left you awfully sleep-deprived.

When he finally woke up, Galavant had a wide grin on his face and a project in his mind. The grin got even bigger when Madame Chips wondered loudly ho in the world he had managed to sleep with those two morons messing around by his bed.

"Those two morons?"

"Yes, Kingson and his henchman. They came in just after Professor Jewelee left, and demanded to sit there-" she pointed at Galavant's bed, "- while kept bickering the whole time. Bickering about who needed to shut up first, for Merlin's sake."

By the time he was out of the Infirmary, Galavant wasn’t walking – he was hopping with anticipation. The project was stupid. The project was premature. It was hasty, half-baked, improvised.

It felt absolutely right.

Look Dad, look. A grest beginning, ar last.

He rushed down the corridor, down a rampa of stairs, turned left, said hi to a flock of first-years, and slipped in the Teachers' Lounge. He had calculated it right. Richard was about to leave for the third-year class and was currently trying to stuff back in his pocket a feisty bunny made of dust clumps, colleagues snorting and shouting encouragements.

Gal crossed the room and grabbed his arm.

"May I have a word?"

Richard looked up with a loud ah-choo. "But I-"

"Just a moment, Richard. Please."

"Uh. Al- alright?"

He nodded, and Gal dragged him out of the room, towards the first arched window they found in the corridor. The midday lessons were still to end; the most private place in the school had suddenly become the First Floor’s main corridor. Gal dropped Richard's arm and stood in front of him, stiff and barely breathing. "I would like to formally invite you to the Yule Ball."

Silence fell. The clump-bunny finally quieted in Richard's pocket. He sneezed loudly, mesmerized. "Pardon me?"

"The Yule Ball." Gal blurted out. "You know, the one on Winter Solstice. I would, like to go with you. You and me. As a couple. For dance and stuff,” he added, praying his brain to just shut the Hell up.

"Oh. Oh. I. I." Slowly, silently a wide smile was breaking on Richard's face, like light surfacing on a pond.

It was beyond enchanting.

"You mean it?” Richard asked softly, “For realsies?"

"Of course yes, Richard," Gal whispered. Swallowed. "So, what do you-"

"Of course yes, Gal," Richard said softly, like it was the most obvious question of the world, "of course I want to come with you." He hesitated, pressing a hand against his lips – hiding the small, newborn smile pulling at his lips. "I just- I didn't- well, it seems like I own a couple of Galleons to Gare."

Gal owed a lot more than a couple of Galleons to Izzy. He didn't really care. He cared even less when he was engulfed by a handful of warm limbs and soft skin and dust-smelling hair. "Thank you, Gal. Thank you so much." Richard murmured against his neck. His beard rubbed gently on Gal's collar. There was so much emotion in his voice, a hint of authentic bafflement that made Gal’s heart break a little.

"Ah, it's not you who should say thanks, Rich,” Gal chuckled, slipping his arms around him, an awkward thing that was not quite friendly and not yet romantic. "It's me. That's how it works when you ask someone out and they says yes. Especially a magical superstar."

It felt like flipping a switch: there was nothing sudden enough in Magical World to describe it. Richard's back stiffened, his whole body jolted, alert. He took a step back, hands dropping at his sides, and suddenly Gal was awkwardly hugging the void.

"Since when?"

Gal blinked, cocking his head. Richard’s voice was cold and measured, a very un-Richard voice. He was looking right at him, gave away nothing. "Since when what?"

"Since when have you decided to ask me to come with you to the Yule Ball, Galavant?"

"I can't see why this should matter-"

"Since yesterday?" Richard asked curtly.

"Well, yeah," Gal answered. He leant in again, carefully, reaching for Richard's shoulder. He backed away like Galavant’s touch would burn him to death.

"Richard please, talk to me. I don't see what's the problem."

Richard laughed, dropping his gaze. He laughed a lot, but that was a different one, a short, sharp crack, like a gun shot. It seemed to hurt him as much as Gal.

"Oh yes, now it all makes sense. Richard the Fancy Charmer was not enough, but oh, the cool Patronus-caster is another question altogether, right?"

He was still standing in the same spot, less than two steps from Gal, wrinkling the rim of his sleeve between index and thumb, over and over. The clump-bunny peered out again off his pocket and hopped on the floor with a poof of dust clouds, but Gal didn’t even notice. "Richard, how could you think such a thing of me? You should know I’m not that kind of person." He said softly, and it was true.

"I know it Gal," Richard shook his head. "I know you didn’t think it. But it doesn’t make it less true. You can like me now that it's proved I'm not a total twerp."

"Well..." Galavant took a deep breath – two deep breaths, as a piece, the smallest piece of him had fluttered just for the fact he still called him Gal. "Well, what's the matter with being happy you're a great magician? I was thinking about asking – about, us even before, but yesterday I - yesterday I saw how incredible you are. How incredible you are behind glasses and dorkiness and all that pretty crap. I just, just think about all the things you could do with that power and-"

"-I don't want to do any of them,” Richard replied.

Gal scowled. He couldn’t see what the problem was, and Richard couldn’t see it was all for his own good, and this was making him angry. "Then what do you mean to do? Stay here making, dust bunnies and sparkling milk?"

"Exactly."

"You don't understand. You should put this talent to some use, Richard." Gal racked his hand through his hair, frustrated. " I mean, why teaching? Why teaching Charms?"

The word came out more disgusted than he'd intended. Richard paled, brows furrowing, a polished portrait of indignation. "Because I adore Charms, Galavant."

Gal shook his head. "You don't understand-"

"No, it's you who don't understand,” Richard said sharply. He took a step closer, jaw set, eyes clear and hard. "The kids behind those doors are learning to fight. They're learning to make poisons, to set things on fire, and to dominate the earth and keep at bay nightmare things ready to devour this world if they let their guard down, and this is all good. But magic is not only fire and battle. Someone, someone must teach them magic could also make people laugh and smile and feel happier. They need to learn that magic could also flowers blooming in the middle of winter, and broken cups coming back together, and gloves that never get wet and beads of glass gleaming like real stars and ten thousand other small wondrous things. This, this is the magic I love Galavant. This is what I'm here to remind those kids of. It's not a fallback.

There is much more about magic than what you think, Galavant Knight. If you can't understand this, then we have nothing to talk about."

Galavant blinked, twice. He opened his mouth, to say something, anything, and closed it back. He wanted to fix things. He wasn't sure what things he should fix. Richard stared at him for a moment more, like he had done that evening by the Hogwarts’s door, before he went out to the rescue of the same man who told him he was too weak to follow. Then he turned and walked briskly back down the corridor, as the classroom doors clicked open.

The right words came to him when Richard was already lost behind the corner. Gal muttered them to a stream of loud students and deafening silence.

"I'm sorry."

*

Galavant and Richard managed not to meet each other for the following three days; that isn’t such an easy task when living in the same castle -enormous, sure, but still the same castle - and teaching on the same corridor and with extremely close schedules. However, the achievement didn't delight much either of them. Since the day Professor Knightley dragged off the Teachers' Lounge Professor Kingson and came back with a grim face and alone, the rest of the teachers had sniffed something had gone wrong and confirmed it discretely while studying them both. Gal kept himself busy with the third-years' essays and the review on Eastern Daemonology for the after-holiday lessons, but he heard what people said. He heard that Professor Kingson lately had been ditsier than usual, that he had smiled a lot less, that the day before he had stared three hours out on the castle battlements, and not to throw dragon fireworks to the poor passersby like he used to. "You know, Professor Galavant," Sid had told him, sipping hot cocoa on the East Gate’s steps, "He's not stranger than usual, but. But now when he’s late for class we kind of worry."

Of course the whole school knew it was somehow Gal's fault. Lunching together, Izzy told him he should sleep with his wand under his pillow because Gareth could decide to take vengeance on his own at any time. Gal knew she was not really joking.

Oh his part, he was coping way better with, well, whatever was what had happened with Richard. Sure, he was a bit more irascible, and didn't sleep that well anymore, and he could have happened to pass in front of Richard's office small door and stay there with a raised fist for several minutes and feel a pang of pain knocking the wind out of him, but still.

Still.

The essay on Eastern Daemonology languished on his desk at page one and half. The wand lied on his night table but still he didn't sleep. Fat snowflakes dotted their mornings. Yule was coming.

They met again, of course. Richard was running with an armful of globes filled with a swirling violet vapor, Gal was heading for class. Richard almost crashed into him, and somehow Gal hoped so so bad he would, but instead he managed to dive at the last moment and slowed down with a small "oh" of surprise.

"Oh. Oh, hullo, Galavant."

"Hello Richard," Gal answered. Silence

He gestured weakly to the mountain of globes. "Need any help with that?"

"Ah, no, thanks. I got it covered. They need human warmth or they go crazy and-" He caught himself mid-sentence. "…Ah. No, thanks."

"Mh. No problem." Gal's voice trailed off and silence dropped back on them with an almost audible thump. He couldn't help but cast Richard a glance. He was pale, maybe a little more than usual, and he had not settled his eyes on something for a single moment. He had forgotten a colored crayon behind the left ear, a lock on the forehead looked a bit singed. Just a glance, what is can be, why should it matter. He realized Richard was doing the same thing.

Right then Galavant felt one of the most inexplicable sensation of his life, because it felt like someone had just hooked his heart and was pulling at the string, yanking him forward, and yet it didn't hurt like it should.

Richard cleared his throat. "So, I suppose, I suppose I should go. We should go. Have things to do."

"Oh," Gal said, softly. "Oh. Yeah. So mh, see you around."

"Same. I should go. Now. See you around, Galavant."

They stood there, smiling without smiling. Snow was falling. Three days to Yule.

They didn't look up and kept walking in opposite directions.

*

Of course, in the end it all came down to a small thing, the day before the Ball.

Gal was lying on his bed, staring at its canopy and perfecting the fine art of sulking. That morning he had gotten up with a hint of headache and a strange dream lingering on the outskirts of his mind. In the dream there was just the unicorn, running around him, neighing high, eyes of smoke and silver flickering in the dark. Gal felt the power all the way up his teeth. He turned around, looking for an enemy to chase away, but there was no one - nothing to fight. The unicorn looked more contented with nibbling at some flowers under an apple tree. Beside the tree was Richard, and he was laughing.

The dream hadn’t faded upon waking. The rush of power, white and neat like a high note. Richard's lips when he was laughing. It had been persecuting him for the whole day. He didn't know if it was the high note or the lips.

If you can't understand this, then we have nothing to talk about.

Gal replayed those words over and over. He knew he should have said sorry, that it was right to say sorry, but couldn’t pin down why. It was true, he had made a move just after the Dementors’ Accident, but Richard didn't understand. That power, the high not was a thing of beauty. He had underestimated him, he had been proved wrong. How great! How good! Richard was not just Richard, tender, vulnerable Richard - he could be a warrior, a fighter, a hero. Showing everyone what he can do. Showing everyone, his ex-schoolmates and his brother and his family in the house with the large cold rooms all the amazing things he could achieve. And Gal wanted to be by his side through all that. Gal wanted to be there when he would realize what a great hero he could be, and support him, and cheer with him. He was bursting with pride for him.

Gal raised a hand to the bed canopy, fingers stretched forward.

Small wondrous things. There is much more about magic than you think, Galavant.

He sighed. Suddenly, something slipped off his sleeve pocket and swirled down on the bed with a papery rustle. Gal's eyes widened when he saw what it was. One of Richard's paper butterflies, the ones he made him the day he healed his ankle. On a wing he could still make out the word nosferatu, scribbled in his round, thick handwriting. Gal smiled and leant in to pick it up; as soon as his finger brushed the paper, the butterfly fluttered against his touch.

It was so sudden Gal jerked his hand back, staring, silent. Some magic must have remained, or maybe the charm itself had been permanent, or Merlin knows what. But here it was the paper butterfly, who was now taking flight, and flapping hard its scribbled wing, and soon it was twirling around Gal's head, brushing his hair, tapping his nose. Gal chucked. He had almost forgotten how realistic they were -or better, not realistic, but so true and so butterfly you can't help but trying to catch it. Gal tried a lunge, but the butterfly ducked on the right, coming to tickle his ear instead. He laughed and tried again to touch it, and a third time, and this time the butterfly made a large arch over the bed, candlelight softly shining through its paper body, and suddenly, unexpectedly, came to rest on Gal's palm. It stopped there, wings rattling softly, no weight in his hand. He remembered Richard had managed something like that, but he had thought it was a creator's thing. He stretched his left hand, slowly, brushing the butterfly with a single finger. It felt dry and soft, humming with a low heartbeat of power. Magic, he thought. Pure magic.

Suddenly, Galavant Knight understood. He was up before thinking about it. The butterfly excitedly flied about his head.

*

Richard grimaced, slamming the cup on the buffet table for the third time. "Ugh, no. I hate it. It's gross."

"It's mead, Rich," Gareth grunted. "Go with the Butterbeer. I've never seen anyone getting drunk on mead anyway, so."

"Ugh," Richard said again. He had not much experience in the field - most times people assured him how he was uninhibited enough even without booze - but Gare just didn't understand. He had to get drunk tonight. He needed it. He needed it here, in this hall, with the banners draping the ceiling like giant gold and green birds and the lights shining off snowflakes through the tall Gothic windows and people dancing in slow embraces as the year blossomed in red berries, because Richard had never felt so vulnerable – so naked - in his entire life. He checked the green robe’s clasp again, half-scared he had forgotten to put it on and was standing in the middle of the Great Hall in his underwear, and again he found it in perfect order.

Gareth followed his hand. He pressed his lips in a tight line. "You want me to put some mandrake extract in his cup? I can do it. Just a tad, the donkey ears wouldn't last more than a week."

"Thanks, my friend." Richard made a small smile. "But I don't think it could help this time. Go on, get back to the laboratory. I know how much you loathe this kind of things."

"Ahummmpf," was the unhappy answer. Richard saw Gare's eyes dart longingly to the doors, then back to him, and let out an even unhappier grunt as he reached an inner compromise between the two. Then he took a pack of homework to mark off his robe’s sleeve, and brushed past Richard with a bump that was suspiciously close to a pat. "I'll be at the Pork Table. No reason to miss a chance to gorge on."

Rich made a smaller smile, watching as Gare-bear dashed through the dancing party as if through enemy’s lines. He would have fun in the end. Everyone would have fun in the end.

But not him, because he was naked.

Richard grasped the mead cup, following the brim with his fingertip. He had been right in the whole matter. He had been wise. He had been an idiot. Galavant had asked him on a date, brightest-smile-ever Gal, apple-smelling Gal, Gal-being-absolutely Gal, and he had said no. And had been an idiot. And he had been right.

Richard's nail slipped against the glass. This time he had felt so close, though. This time he had been sure that there would be something, something good - that he could.

A flicker of movement on his right caught Richard's eye. He blinked, staring, as a tiny butterfly glided in front of him, twirling over his cup. It floated up to his face, grazed his spectacles with a friendly touch, and fell in the mead with a loud plop. Richard recognized the paper, the fold of the wing.

It was one of his paper butterflies.

Someone behind him let out a heartfelt curse. Richard turned. It was Galavant.

Gal glared at the cup with a frown. "That was not supposed to happen."

"You could have just asked me to make you another one, you know that?" Richard asked.

"Yes but, it had kept going until now so, I thought, it could - oh Hell. Never mind."

Silence fell. Silence, but not an awkward one - more of a busy one. Richard felt his heart hammer against his ribs and forgot he was still holding the cup with the inanimate butterfly in it. Gal took a deep breath, eyes trailing down Richard’s figure from head to toes, and for some incomprehensible reason his face turned chalk-white. All of a sudden.

"You look stunning, Rich."

"Ah,” he stuttered. "Ah. Thank, thank you."

Galavant smiled, easily, as if he was simply glad he had made someone else glad. He was in a vague disarray, clad in black robes Richard’s mother would have not dined on, a lock of hair bouncing off his forehead like a topsy-turvy question mark. Richard shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Why are you here, Galavant?"

The question sounded harder and clumsier than he intended to. Gal's smile trembled a bit around the edges, but it stayed there.

"To tell you I'm sorry, and that I've been an idiot,” he said. "And to show you something."

"What?"

"A surprise."

"Mh. I'm not interested."

"That's a lie,” Gal replied gently. “You adore surprises Rich."

He was completely right. Richard put down the cup, fidgeting with the fancy gold-trimmed tablecloth. The butterfly was still floating in the mead.

You look stunning, Rich.

"Well, okay, maybe I am a bit curious,” he admitted, tripping on his words, blood pumping louder and louder in his head, “but I don't think that's a good idea. You said things, I said things and it's all right, really, and thinking it back we would have made no sense.” With a shiver of panic, Richard realized Galavant had taken a step forward. He pointedly didn’t look at him, talking faster. “I mean, we're both too tall for one. And I love salted fudge, and I know you hate it, and I’m always so needy…” Gal got even closer. Richard swallowed. “… and I hated Quidditch back in school so it would be kind of embaras-"

"Richard,” Galavant asked softly, “Could you please shut that big mouth of yours for five seconds?"

Gal’s tone was frustrated and vaguely growling, but Richard didn't mind. It probably had something to do with the fact Gal had slipped so close he could feel the heat radiating off his body, and had gently took hold of his arm, leaning on his face, warm breath brushing his cheek.

"Please, Richard. Just a moment. Just one minute.” He held him tighter, eyes wide and pleading. “I’m begging you.”

"I. I…” Richard licked his lips, a shiver running up his spine. He could feel Gal’s momentum in his grasp, his determination, and knew he didn’t want him to let go of his arm yet, and knew in that moment he was lost. He closed his eyes, head bowed. Please Gal. Please, don’t break my heart.

“I… all right Gal. One minute.”

Gal’s touch slid down his arm, searched his hand, till Richard met his gaze. He grinned. “I’ll make the best of it, Professor Richard Kingson.”

He squeezed Richard’s fingers, asking for permission, and when he nodded Gal weaved their hands together and started across the Hall, Richard jogging along and barely keeping himself from tripping on his feet. They cut across dancing couples, dodged trashing feet, Richard's emerald robe getting caught in heels and corners, until they reached the terrace doors. Outside, the night was cold and clean: the sky had no stars but was filled with swirling snowflakes. They stopped a step before the snow, waiting under one of Hogwarts's gnarled gargoyle, stone wings large enough to shield them both. Gal stood up straight, bouncing like an over-excited boy. Richard wrapped his arms tight around his chest and wondered idly if Gal's surprise implied getting him frozen to death.

They waited. Nothing happened.

"So?" Richard snapped.

"So what?"

"Where is my surprise?"

“Almost here. I swear Rich, it’s worth the wait.”

“But it’s cold!”

"Hold on a sec and you'll see." Gal grumbled, peering in the dark. "Good Merlin, are you impatient."

Richard's head whipped back to look at him, eyes narrowed. "That's not helping your case, Galavant."

"I, it's - you know what, I've prepared a very thorough and rather cute speech for tonight, but now I'm not gonna use it. I'll just show you the damn thing and be over with it either way. Dammit."

"Whatever you say. I'm still waiting for my surprise."

Gal let out a groan, not unlike Gareth’s one. He took out his wand and turned to the terrace’s corner tower munching a stream of curses. Richard found himself staring quietly at his hands. There was something special in Gal's way to cast spells - a frugality of movement, a curt flicker of the wrist that always reminded him of a Muggle matchstick. He had seen it, spied it so many times he could picture Gal's fingers gracefully curled around the wand even behind his eyelids. The thought sent a rush of warmth in his cheeks.

Gal waved his wand, sharply; golden dots rose in the air like a rope of fireflies. A shiver of power ripped through the air. Something fluttered behind the corner.

"Err, okay,” Gal said with a hint of uncertainty in his voice. "So, consider that's the very first time I did something like this and so it's nowhere near perfect, okay? And I got no time to work on it, so consider that-"

"Gal, shut up,” Richard ordered.

There was something coming forward from the terrace corner; or better yet, from above the castle corner. The something had large white wings and was flying. It floated towards them, amidst the snowflakes, and the castle lights shone through it, because it was made of paper. The paper bird turned an eyeless beak towards Richard, flapping feathers made of newspaper shreds as he stared up with a gaping mouth.

A joint in the neck was loosening already; the right wing was way longer than the left one. It flew ungracefully, and the paper was poorly folded, and making it fly during a snowfall had been a horrible idea because some edges were already turning in greyish pulp.

It was the most wondrous thing Richard had seen in his life.

"You made it?" He whispered, breathless.

"Yes."

"But how. When.” Richard bit his lip, whispering the last question. “Why?"

Gal shrugged, swallowing. "It's a – it’s a tricky business you know. I made three prototypes before it managed to fly. I read volumes of Aerodynamics, Origami, Engineering. I couldn’t find anything on the right kind of magic though. I ran to the Library, and asked Gareth, but it was closed and I got a pamphlet on paper wings from Sid and a thing I'm positive it’s written in Hungarian from Madalena’s illegal collection." He paused. "I swear the Pretty Thorough And Rather Cute Speech was much better."

"I hope so, because that’s lame." Richard stated. It made Gal smile.

“Darn right,” Gal chuckled. He shoved his hands in his pockets, lifting his gaze to the flying paper bird. "These, are not stupid things, Richard. And what I saw in the woods has been incredible, and exciting, and terrifying - but it made me so happy because it was you doing it, not the other way around. And these are not stupid things at all."

Gal turned and stepped in front of Richard, head and shoulders out in the snow. He stopped, unsure, staring at him, the papery wings fluttering somewhere over their head.

“You were right. I didn’t understand – I didn’t understand why you would choose this life over glory and honor. I didn’t understand your little wondrous things. But now I do Richard. And I want to know more. And I want learn, from you, learn how soft and beautiful magic can be. And I don’t know if it is too late, but if you’re still ready to give me a chance, I swear to you I’ll do everything humanly possible to be the man you deserve.”

Galavant cocked his head, snowflakes shimmering on his long black eyelids. Reds and pinks were spreading up his neck. “I’m so sorry for the way I treated you, Richard Kingson. Now I’m here, in front of you, at your mercy. Choose as you see fit. As for me, I would forever count myself fortunate to have met such a wonder of nature.”

Richard held his gaze, eyes wide. Galavant, brightest-smile-ever Gal, apple-smelling Gal was standing in front of him, flustered and half-frozen, holding his heart in his hands. And I have his, Richard realized with a jolt. And I have his. He felt his eyes fill with tears, a knot of warmth swelling in his chest, chasing the cold away.

Keep it, Gal. Keep it .

Richard let out a long, frustrated growl. "Oh Hells, Galavant," he grumbled. "Just kiss me already and let's get out of this ice box!"

And he did just so. Richard leant forward, his nose crushing against Gal’s, spectacles getting tangled in his hair, hands twisted in his robe like cold bony claws – but Gal’s hands just grasped him tighter. Richard's lips were warm and soft, peppermint-scented. His heart was throbbing through his robes like a bird’s. He had no idea what he was doing. Gal crushed him against his chest, this intolerable, outrageous, priceless man, closer, closer, till Richard’s arms clasped around his neck and his body molded into his. They were making a mess. They had all the time to learn. The world could have ended in that moment, and they wouldn’t have cared.

"Oh. Ah. Ah. " Richard gasped, staggering back like a Bludger shot across the Quidditch field. "There, there we are, see? All done. No big deal."

"No big deal at all," Gal replied. Richard's cheeks were flushed pink, wobbly hands fixing a collar that had no need to be fixed. Gal didn't even try to hide the stupid grin pulling at his lips. He treacherously gave him a second peck on the lips.

"Ah, gnrodofkdkd," Richard blabbered. Gal chuckled and held him tighter, shielding him from the cold. Richard seemed content enough with nuzzling his shoulder. They stood there in silence, watching the snow fall on Hogwarts slopes, the paper bird floating in slow circles. Its left wing had given away for good. Richard was staring critically.

"You think it's a pitiful mess, right?"

He grimaced in sympathy. "Ah, no. You put so much effort in it. I – I should just make some adjustments."

“Adjustments, eh?”

“Yes.” Richard laughed, burying himself in Galavant’s cloak. “You know, I’m more and more pleased I told Gareth not to put the mandrake extract in your drink. Seems like you don’t deserve the donkey ears after all.”

Gal thought about the filled, bubbling glass he had gulped down at the party to find the courage to face Richard and that had tasted vaguely off. He froze with a smile still plastered on his face.

“Oh, Merlin.”