Winter's Warmth

Soft bells rang with seasonal cheer from the Great Hall as one young lady, a student of long dark hair and fair skin in her Sixth Year at the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, made her way out into the courtyard. Her steps showed intent, though she was alone, and direction. In the cold evening air there was a clarity for her, the bells were soon replaced by thoughts. They were many, though at present her mind was as set on a certain invitation that she had received, as her body was on getting there.

She remembered the words.

Dear Phoebe,
it's come to my attention that your interest in non-verbal and wandless magic exceeds the expectations of our curriculum. As someone who admires your thirst of knowledge, I wish to share my thoughts and insights. Therefore I propose that we meet at the courtyard of the Transfiguration tower two days from now, an hour after sun-set. I hope and anxiously anticipate that you will indulge this invitation.

Faithfully yours,
Morgan Maygrove

Crossing the Viaduct bridge, she pulled her cloak tight around herself, shuddering while she mused on. Phoebe had known Morgan, sharing more than a few classes with him. Since their Fifth Year, their friend circles overlapped more and they'd become something like friends themselves, though Phoebe had always felt that Morgan was rather the type to gather an army of associates around him with how rarely she'd seen him alone. There was no reason to doubt his ability, being a capable wizard, she thought. But her decision to humor his invitation was more out of skepticism and curiosity due to this break from his usual demeanor.
It didn't pass by her notice that there was some change to Morgan in fact. Some of his aloof panache gave way to a more grounded assertiveness, he had taken to mediating more between fellow students in disputes. While these examples of recent memory ran through her head Phoebe paused, wondering to herself why.

"I'm glad that you came."

The familiar voice called her back to the present and made her realize at once, she had arrived. Perched under an arch in his boyish manner, resting an elbow on the knee drawn close to his chest, the young man slowly rose from his position. Standing roughly a head taller than her, his black hair naturally fell back and was just shy of his shoulders in length. "How could I not? If you're sincere, then I have all the reason. And if not... I will at least have something to laugh about." she said, folding her arms infront of her chest with a bemused smile. "Sincere as one can be. Perhaps you'll be amused all the same." Morgan cleared his throat and waved a hand, offering her a seat next to him. She obliged and settled down on the stone bench by the arch, only after that did he himself sit back down.

The moon, full and gleaning of silver, shone without a cloud in sight. "So you perform magic just with your hands?", she regarded him closely, for some reason not mustering the keen questioning edge when confronted with his expression. Morgan had a smile to him just then, much like a man who had, after an exhausting journey through a desert, found water. Or gathered up the courage to do something he had meant to do for long.
"There's magic in hands." He nodded before continuing. "For one, they can say much more than words; they can welcome, beg, pray...", he formed each gesture with his hands while their eyes met. Though a brow lifted, Phoebe felt drawn to his eyes. A sincere effort, she thought, even if he's just waxing poetic.

Morgan then lifted his right arm to the sky. "Even this." Her eyes broke from his, following his movement as he put his index finger and thumb around the moon, as though he truly held it between them. It seemed to nudge up and down ever so slightly with his hand's movements, and to Phoebe's wonder, he next made the moon roll between his fingers, much like a sterling coin. Afterwards, he closed his hand around the moon and slowly lowered his arm to bring his hand just between their laps. She tilted her head, watching the faint glow escaping the gap of his fingers, only to open his hand.

It was empty. And the moon sat full and distant in the night sky.

"What did you do... how did you do that?" Phoebe leaned forward to inspect his hand first, then she looked up at him. He explained in a matter of fact, but gentle tone. "That was a mere trick, a play of light. But magic is real, we both know that. And there's a certain magic... that doesn't require wands or words either. I know it when I look at you." He said, the flush of his cheeks dawning on her in his pause. "When I look into your eyes, Phoebe."
In that instant a whirl of emotion passed over Phoebe, she did not know what to think -- he wasn't lying for sure, and put a lot of effort into 'just a trick'.
But most of all, her heart fluttered, blood rose and rushed through her at his words. And she put her hand on his, sat close with no one else but them.
Just then, the first flakes of snow began their descent.

Yet Morgan and Phoebe no longer felt the cold, for the first time in winter.

There they sat and talked through the whole night, sharing in eachother's embrace.