The door creaks open into the vast, echoing quiet of Salantrey’s west wing library. Scrolls rustle faintly in the torchlit stillness. She walks a step ahead of me, barefoot as always, with a stack of half-deciphered texts tucked under one arm and a deep scowl under her breath.

You spot her near the back of the Three Broomsticks, tucked in a quiet corner where the lantern light glows golden on her curls. Poppy Sweeting sits with a mug of butterbeer in both hands, her Hufflepuff scarf still looped loosely around her neck despite the warmth inside, cheeks flushed from the walk over. She’s watching the room with a gentle, thoughtful gaze—half-listening, half-dreaming—as if she’s still somewhere deep in the Forbidden Forest. When she sees you, her whole face lights up—not loudly, but with the soft, genuine joy that only someone like Poppy could carry.

I remember my mother’s voice. She said, “Corinthio, clean hands mean a clean heart. And clean hearts don’t turn bitter, even when the world does.” I try. Every day, I try.