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( 𝔳𝔬𝔩𝔲𝔪𝔢 𝔦𝔦𝔦, 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖞-𝖊𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 ) — a scar means i survived
Evangeline and Snape's mutual agreement of disliking Umbridge had spread through to the rest of the teachers like a disease; Professor Flitwick would not-so-subtlety pinch his nose whenever she walked past, and Professor Sinistra made a great deal of shuffling her seat as far away as possible from the frilly woman during meals.
It was a comical sight, really — a woman in her fourties shunned like a schoolgirl.
''Okay, write that down,'' Hermione instructed Ron, pushing his essay back to him. ''After, copy out this conclusion I've written for you.''
The Rosier girl currently sat in the Gryffindor common room. Despite her emerald robes and silver jewellery causing her to stick out like a sore thumb, she was content with the ever-replenishing mugs of tea Dobby bought, as well as the squashy armchair that reminded her all too much of Remus' cottage.
She had been marking homework, which the brunette had found herself doing more often than not. Something else she had taken great comfort in was spending an increasing amount of time with Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the Weasley children. Maybe it was because she had gotten used to their company over their summer, or because she dreaded being alone again, but whatever the reason was, not one of them questioned it.
''Hermione, you are honestly the most wonderful person I've ever met,'' Ron complimented weakly. ''And if I'm ever rude to you again—''
''—I'll know you're back to normal.''
Evangeline cleared her throat knowingly, glancing between the two with a cheeky smirk. If she couldn't be happy, then she was more than fine with passing the turn to Ron and Hermione. Even if it took a long, long, long while, she knew they would end up together eventually; it was the perfect love story (and one with an actual happy ending).
The two blushed a bright beetroot red whilst a very flushed Granger girl scrambled for Harry's sheet. ''Harry, yours is okay except for this bit at the end, I think you must've misheard Professor Sinistra, Europa's covered in ice, not mice— Harry?''
The Potter boy had slid off his chair onto his knees and was now crouching on the singed and threadbare hearthrug, gazing into the amber flames.
