If one had a choice, they would definitely not choose the dilapidated Shrieking Shack as their dwelling, its walls peeling, floors stained, moth-eaten furniture, and boarded-up windows, allowing only a microscopic stream of light into the building.

This was not the first time Valeria has used a memory charm on fellow witches and wizards, and naturally, she has become quite proficient with them. How else would she be able to maintain her secret?

Lysander’s demeanour and the words that followed seem rather honest, much like he was when Valeria had been acquainted with him the month before. There is a part of her that feels apologetic for being slightly belligerent and direct with him, but she must do anything to protect her secret.

The Whomping Willow’s branches are tamed, frozen in time under the faint gleam of the moon’s light, a silver orb halfway into the sky. Lumos. Wand still in hand, Valeria is about to make her way towards the tree’s roots, when she suddenly hears her name.

At the other end of the passage, through a small peephole, Valeria can only spot maybe five youthful bodies inside Scrivenshaft's - many of the younger students would have preferred Honeydukes or Zonkos. When the coast is relatively clear, Valeria steps out into the shop, nonchalantly, as if she hadn’t just appeared out of what was thought to be a supplies closet.

Surrounded by ancient titles and worn-out covers, Valeria thoroughly scans through the bookshelves in search for a spine labelled Hairy Snout, Human Heart - a recount of a wizard’s experience against lycanthropy. She is, however, not looking for this book specifically, but the one carefully placed to its right.

Hogsmeade weekends are Valeria’s favourite thing about being a witch at Hogwarts (aside from all the fascinating subjects, of course), especially with layers of snow perched on the rooftops.

Valeria found herself wandering about the school grounds, admiring the first snow of the year.

“When you’re preoccupied, days of the week don’t seem to be of relative importance.” Valeria has to admit that for once, she was enjoying talking to somebody other than herself. Or her owl, for that matter.

It felt nice to know that someone appreciates and acknowledges her skills, no matter how small the situation may be.

Valeria had half-expected Lysander to catch her - since he is standing so close - but these expectations were turned to ashes as she feels the cold stone underneath her bare limbs.

In truth, Valeria is not so much curious about the classes - she’s already read some of her brother’s textbooks to get enough sense of what will be learned - as to just talking to the boy.

For the second time in her life, Valeria feels as if somebody understands her (the first being with Alain, of course). Not in the sympathetic kind of way, which by no doubts is still effective, but not nearly as heart-warming as having actually experienced it.

Oh no, I’ve done it again. Why do I always mess things up? Scrunching her face, Valeria hits herself on the head with her palm.

“Lysander Rathborne. Yeah, I know who you are.”

Valeria is slightly taken aback by the grin Lysander sends her way. Her first self-defensive instinct questions if the boy has any ulterior motives - why else would he be so nice to her? Hardly anybody smiles at her, let alone notices and talks to her for more than a minute.

Ever since she started at Hogwarts - or possibly even before that - Valeria has developed a particular liking and affinity towards Potions. The fact that a small dose of magically-brewed liquid can change lives, either for better or worse, entices her.

She can feel it in her bones, as the wind sends a cool chill down the back of her neck. Winter is just around the corner, a small child peering out from behind the hem of Autumn’s skirt, slowly preparing to show himself.

Hearing a Seventh Year’s voice surprises Valeria, especially one that just so happens to speak of the very thing she is writing about: the Halloween party.

The Headmistress just made an announcement during dinner this evening.