Dark Wings Over Hogwarts

The flicker of candlelight danced across Zane's face as he sat at the worn oak desk in his room. The orphanage was quiet—most of the children were already asleep—leaving only the distant creak of old wood and the occasional sigh of the wind through cracked windows. In his hands was a simple piece of parchment, but the weight it carried felt heavier than any weapon he'd ever wielded.

Dumbledore's invitation.

A bitter smile tugged at his lips. Years spent in the underbelly of the magical world, surviving on sharp reflexes and sharper spells—and now, Hogwarts wanted him back. Not as a student. Not as a cautionary tale. A professor.

He twirled the quill between his fingers, the motion smooth, practiced—like a habit he couldn't break. Was he really suited for a classroom? Could someone like him—who knew magic's ugliest truths—teach children how to wield it?

The matron's voice echoed in his mind: "You can't stay in the shadows forever, Zane."

The shadows were comfortable. Predictable. But Hogwarts? That was a different battlefield entirely.

And yet…

Zane dipped the quill into ink, the decision already made before he even realized it.

---

Headmaster Dumbledore,

I accept your offer.

I will arrive at Hogwarts at your earliest convenience to discuss the nature of the Combat Magic course.

Regards,

Zane Falconer

---

The words were brief. Detached. It was easier to keep things that way.

He stood and crossed the room to the old barn owl perched on the windowsill. "Dumbledore," he murmured, tying the letter to its leg. The owl hooted softly before taking flight, vanishing into the moonlit sky.

Zane lingered at the window, eyes scanning the distant horizon. He hadn't seen Hogwarts since the day he left in 1984—the day he realized that no amount of magical skill could change the way people saw a Muggle-born Slytherin.

The Sorting Hat had been blunt.

"Ambitious… clever… and more than a little ruthless when you need to be. Slytherin will hone your strengths—if you can survive it."

He had. But the scars remained.

---

His first year had been a lesson in cruelty.

The Slytherin common room, buried beneath the Black Lake, was elegant but cold. That coldness seeped into its students too. To them, Zane Falconer was nothing—an orphan with no family name or legacy. Prey.

But Zane adapted. Fast.

By his fourth year, the sneers faded. He had no interest in petty power plays—he was too busy mastering spells others found impractical. While his peers focused on flashy dueling, Zane learned magic that could save your life when the rules no longer applied.

And now Dumbledore wanted him to teach that magic.

The idea was almost amusing.

---

A knock at the door broke his thoughts. Mrs. Holloway stepped in, her stern features softened by the dim candlelight.

"You've been restless," she said quietly.

Zane let out a breath. "Old habits."

She folded her arms. "And this Hogwarts business?"

"It's settled," he admitted.

For a moment, the only sound was the wind against the glass. Then, in a gentler voice, she said, "It's time, Zane. You know it is."

He wanted to argue—to tell her that the underworld needed people like him, that there were always more threats in the dark—but he didn't. She was right. And he was tired.

"I won't forget this place," he said instead.

"I know," she replied. Her voice softened. "But you deserve more than survival."

As she turned to leave, Zane called after her. "Thank you… for everything."

Her pause was brief, but the warmth in her words lingered.

"Always, child."

When the door closed behind her, Zane exhaled, the tension in his chest easing—just a little.

Hogwarts.

A new path.

Whether it was redemption or just another battlefield, he would find out soon enough.