HP a fictional story

Claire was in her forties when she returned to Hogwarts. The Ravenclaw students were deeply impressed by the sternness and sternness of the new headmaster. She was tall and straight, with a straight back and pale complexion. Her dark cloak was like a stiff quartz clock, and outside of the classroom, no one had ever seen a smile appear in her dark gray eyes.

"She looks like a living dead."

So say the Ravenclaw students.But these words were only quietly circulated in the student dormitories in the tower building, and no one dared to pass them to the ears of the dean.

Twelve years have passed since the Great War, and there is only the last member of the noble Black family to support this glorious surname. For these students who just came to Hogwarts from the Muggle world, the pure-blood family is like a mysterious Taboo, fatally attractive and menacingly evil, but Claire Black is absolutely intimidating with her academic prowess and awe-inspiring impartiality.

Minerva McGonagall was the only person she could talk to at Hogwarts. After McGonagall passed away, Principal Sprout cared a lot for this withdrawn teacher, but was often treated politely. shut out.

"I don't know if Professor Black has ever loved someone, or if he was born that way."

Some girls who have read too many love novels often get together to whisper and speculate about this respectable professor. In fact, some gossip or associative talk often contain amazing intuition, but no one wants to believe it That's all.

On Christmas in 12, Hogwarts was gradually empty, and students left the school one after another to return home. Neville Longbottom, as the head of Hufflepuff, had to stay at the school to take care of the students who did not return home , the arrival of Mrs. Hannah Longbottom added a little warmth to the auditorium.At this moment, Claire Black was sitting silently in front of the fireplace in the principal's office, facing Sprout's kind face. No one spoke for a long time. After [-] years, silence is all languages.

Sprout stared quietly at the woman in front of him. She had a square jaw, high cheekbones, thick black eyebrows, and tight red lips. This face was too firm and sharp, not soft at all, but after more than 20 years The spirit of the girl from before endows it with charm.Nothing could hurt the old Headmaster's heart so much as now that the soul, bright as lightning, had dimmed and withered.

"Claire, I miss the way you used to teach."

"I'm getting old, Headmaster."

"Oh, don't mention that word in front of a real old man like me."

"Alan Green." Sprout's smile was full of tears: "I'm sorry, if the kid is still alive, his son should be able to enroll, and he will be the first batch of students you coach again."

"I beg you, Headmaster, to stop talking."

Claire lowered her head, and when she raised her head to look directly at the old man again, her indifferent gray eyes sparkled.

Professor Sprout was wrong, he was younger than she thought, and if he had lived, the child would have been very young.