Chapter Text
Chapter 33: The Warmth That Waits
The dungeon’s chill clung to Kalo as he crossed the grounds. His hands still smelled faintly of asphodel, and his mind replayed Snape’s sharp words. Balance, precision, questions. Always questions.
The glow of Hagrid’s hut cut through the dusk like a beacon. Smoke curled from the crooked chimney, and Fang’s deep bark sounded as Kalo knocked.
“Ah! Knew yeh’d be back,” Hagrid boomed, opening the door wide. He looked Kalo up and down. “You’ve got the look of someone who’s been wrung out. Potions again?”
Kalo shifted his satchel on his shoulder. “Professor, I… wondered if you might have work. Something small. My parents are managing, but every year the books cost more. If I can ease it, even a little, I should.”
Hagrid’s brow furrowed, softening at once. “Ah. Well, I can always use a hand. Nothin’ fancy — muckin’ pens, haulin’ buckets. Won’t make yeh rich, but yeh’ll earn somethin’ for yer own pocket.”
Kalo bowed his head. “That’s more than enough.”
He led Kalo around the hut to a small enclosure where pale shapes glowed faintly beneath the rising moon. Wide-eyed creatures with long necks and spindly legs shuffled nervously, their hides reflecting the silvery light as though the night sky itself had brushed against them. Their heads turned in unison as the two approached.
“Mooncalves,” Hagrid explained softly. “Shy things, but harmless. Skittish, though. Yeh rush ’em, they bolt.”
Kalo leaned against the fence, watching the creatures sway like dancers. Their movements were awkward yet strangely graceful, every twitch timed to some rhythm he couldn’t hear.
“They’ll eat from yer hand if yeh keep still,” Hagrid said, passing him a bucket of feed.
Kalo climbed in carefully, crouched low, and waited. At first the mooncalves shied back, blinking their enormous eyes. But as Kalo stayed quiet, hand outstretched, one inched forward. Its damp nose brushed his palm before nibbling delicately at the feed.
A soft laugh escaped him — quiet, but genuine.
“See?” Hagrid rumbled. “They trust patience. Most don’t have the time for it, but you do. Yeh’ve got a way with creatures, lad. Not with force, but with waitin’. Tha’s rarer than spellwork.”
Kalo stroked the mooncalf’s neck as it ate, its skin smooth and cool. The tension of the dungeon eased from his shoulders. Here, in the hush of the paddock, there were no riddles, no sharp words, no dread of shadows. Only stillness, and a quiet trust — the kind of rhythm he longed to find in himself.
He thought of Neville’s tremble easing in the library, of Susan’s shy smile at Sorting, of Cedric’s steady presence. Perhaps trust, once given, was its own shield. And as the moon rose higher, he wondered if this same patience might be the key to calling light against the dark.