"Pretending to be Dementors? Do you have any idea what kind of psychological impact that could have on the players? Especially Potter, who's already been attacked by real ones! How dare you pull something like this!"
As soon as the words left her mouth, four heads popped out from under the three black cloaks.
At the top was Malfoy, his blond hair a tangled mess, bits of grass clinging to his face.
Clearly, to look taller than his two mates, he'd been perched on Goyle's shoulders.
Crabbe and Goyle clambered out from the cloaks, looking bewildered and muttering, "It wasn't our idea."
Slytherin's Quidditch captain, Flint, was the last to emerge, his cloak torn at the corner. His face held a trace of defiance, but he couldn't meet Professor McGonagall's piercing gaze.
"A shameful, disgusting trick!"
McGonagall's voice rose even higher.
"Despicable, cowardly! I'm deducting fifty points from Slytherin House for your behavior! Each of you will serve detention until I'm satisfied you've learned your lesson!"
She paused, her eyes sweeping over the four sulking students, her tone as stern as ever.
"I'll report this to Professor Dumbledore at once—oh, it seems I won't need to. He's already here."
Professor Dumbledore was strolling over from the castle, his silver beard glinting in the sunlight.
His face was calm, but those blue eyes held a knowing glint, as if he'd already figured out these "Dementors" were fake.
After all, the last Dementor attack was still fresh in everyone's minds.
Fudge wouldn't dare ignore Dumbledore's warnings.
No matter what, he'd do everything to keep the Dementors in check.
Even if it meant tossing a few more condemned souls to those foul creatures to feed on.
Otherwise, Dumbledore's wrath was something Fudge couldn't handle.
Dumbledore clearly knew this.
So, he'd probably suspected these Dementors were impostors from the start.
He reached McGonagall's side, gently patting her shoulder and murmuring something.
McGonagall's expression softened slightly.
Dylan, who'd been watching the drama unfold, let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head as he turned to leave.
Some people are just set on digging their own graves, and no one can stop them.
But he hadn't gone far when he spotted Professor Lupin walking toward them with Harry.
Harry's face was still flushed with excitement, his hand clutching the Golden Snitch tightly. His eyes lit up when he saw Dylan.
Dylan gave him a smile and a nod, not interrupting.
Right now, Harry's probably bursting to share his joy with his teammates.
Plus, Dylan wasn't keen on chatting with Lupin.
Back in the Gryffindor common room, Dylan yawned.
Not because he was sleepy.
Just a bit worn out.
The whole of Gryffindor was in a feverish uproar.
The common room was so loud with Quidditch victory celebrations, it felt like the stone arches might collapse.
Dylan's ears were ringing.
The fire in the hearth blazed fiercely, logs crackling and casting flickering orange light onto the lion banners hanging on the walls.
The golden-threaded manes seemed to ripple with the cheers, almost lifelike.
Dylan slipped into his suitcase space for some peace.
He also brought a rose-filled pastry for Ravenclaw, asking her to study its ingredients.
Ravenclaw wasn't as food-obsessed as a Hufflepuff might be.
But being the scholar she was, she knew a thing or two about culinary arts.
She took the pastry and, per Dylan's request, set to work on perfecting the recipe for floral shortbread.
Maybe even inventing a food-related charm.
Much later, when Dylan emerged from the suitcase space, the party was still in full swing.
He stepped out to check.
Just then, Fred and George returned from a secret passage.
Their robes were dusted with grass from outside Hogsmeade, and they brought a chill with them.
When they opened the wooden crate they were carrying, the scents of butterbeer's malty warmth, pumpkin fizz's sugary sweetness, and Honeydukes' rich candy aromas burst forth, mingling into a cozy, sweet cloud.
Dylan lounged in an armchair, watching Alicia Spinnet clink her pumpkin fizz bottle against Katie Bell's with a crisp chime.
He glanced at the barely-sipped pumpkin fizz by his feet.
Droplets of condensation clung to the glass.
Tiny bubbles floated in the orange liquid.
The mix of pumpkin sweetness and fizzy sting made his throat twitch, but he couldn't bring himself to take another sip.
To him, it was like tossing perfectly good pumpkin juice into bubbling swamp water—a total insult to pumpkins!
But when Fred shoved a butterbeer into his hand, Dylan accepted it gladly.
This wasn't the non-alcoholic stuff—it was proper butterbeer.
No idea how George and the others smuggled it from the pub.
He gave the glass a gentle swirl.
The amber liquid curved softly, fine foam clinging to the rim.
Dylan took a sip, the rich malt flavor laced with a hint of buttery warmth sliding down his throat.
A cozy heat spread from his stomach, making the noisy laughter around him more bearable.
He'd planned to check when this lot would finally wind down. If the party didn't end soon, he'd cast a Silencing Charm in his dorm and catch up on sleep.
But now, this free butterbeer had him lingering.
Dylan clinked glasses with Seamus from his dorm, one after another.
He watched Seamus and Dean argue heatedly over Harry's diving move in the match.
The fire's logs burned down to a glowing pile of embers.
Moonlight slanted through the windows, and Dylan realized it was nearly midnight.
Dean was waving a Honeydukes licorice wand, mimicking Harry's Patronus-casting pose, making everyone around him laugh.
Dylan grabbed another unopened butterbeer from the table, weaving through the younger students scrambling for candy, and headed to a shadowy corner desk.
Hermione was there.
Harry had been with her earlier, joking and sharing a giant Chocolate Frog.
He's probably been dragged off to play wizard chess now, leaving her alone.
Not that Hermione minded.
She hadn't planned on keeping him there anyway.
Spread before her was a thick copy of Magical Draughts and Potions, its pages curled from heavy use, surrounded by scattered parchment.
The sheets were covered in dense handwriting. Her quill hovered in midair, the ink bottle nearly empty.
Her hair was messier than usual, a few brown strands falling over her forehead, smudged with ink she hadn't noticed. Her right hand gripped the quill, her left absently rubbing her temple.
Clearly, those complex potion formulas were giving her a headache.
"If you keep this up, you're gonna collapse," Dylan said, his voice softer than usual to cut through the distant noise.
He placed the fresh butterbeer gently on the empty spot by her hand, the glass clinking lightly against the desk.
It was within her reach but wouldn't touch her parchment.
Dylan noticed her half-empty butterbeer, its foam long gone, a faint brown ring staining the glass.
Hermione looked up, her eyes still hazy from the book. It took a few seconds for her to focus on Dylan.
She paused, then gave a tired smile, brushing her hair behind her ear, oblivious to the ink smudge her fingers grazed.
"I know… thanks." Her voice was a bit hoarse, probably from not talking much all evening.
She grabbed the new butterbeer and took a big gulp.
The warm liquid eased her furrowed brow slightly.
But she set the glass down and picked up her quill again, the nib scratching clear letters onto the parchment.
"Potions essay's due tomorrow. Snape said he'll deduct ten points for every missing word. I'm not letting Gryffindor lose more points."
Her eyes stayed glued to the paper as she spoke, her quill pausing briefly under the heading "Twelve Improved Formulas for Wolfsbane Potion" before racing on.
Dylan didn't interrupt, leaning against the nearby bookshelf, watching her focused profile softened by the firelight.
Hermione's actually quite pretty like this.
Though, compared to Luna, she was a tad less striking.
Nearby, Fred and George were sneaking a bundle of fireworks into the hearth, drawing cheers from the crowd.
Hermione seemed oblivious to the noise.
Only when a firework exploded above the hearth in a burst of golden sparks did she glance up briefly before diving back into her book, as if an invisible wall separated her from the revelry.
Dylan sipped his butterbeer and said, "Your health's got to matter more than points, right? Forgot what I told you before?"
Hermione's quill paused, a familiar warmth stirring in her chest.
Harry and Ron had said something similar not long ago.
Ron, stuffing a pumpkin pasty in his mouth, had mumbled about her not pushing herself so hard.
Harry had nodded, saying it was fine if she didn't finish her homework.
But how could that be fine?
Ron and Hermione had only patched things up after Harry revealed Scabbers' true identity.
When Ron learned his pet rat of twelve years was actually Peter Pettigrew, he was gobsmacked.
Harry said Ron's hand was shaking so hard holding the Marauder's Map, he could barely stand before rushing to the bathroom.
When Ron remembered all the fights with Hermione over Crookshanks chasing Scabbers, he turned beet red and avoided her for days.
Until one breakfast, when he slipped a neatly wrapped chocolate into her hand, muttering, "Crookshanks… he's actually pretty clever."
Hermione saw the blush on his ears and got it instantly.
That awkward git was apologizing.
She didn't say much, just unwrapped the chocolate and split it with him.
Ron's eyes lit up like a dog with a bone.
But Dylan's concern now?
It was different from Harry and Ron's "slacker-to-swot" confusion.
He got her.
He understood the color-coded notes in her notebook.
He knew the quiet thrill of seeing an "Outstanding" mark.
He felt the solid satisfaction of finishing a dense magical theory book late at night.
After all, in Charms, Dylan was the only Gryffindor who could crack advanced nonverbal Transfiguration spells alongside her.
"Even so, I'm definitely finishing this."
Hermione looked up with a determined smile.
"Ron's brother Bill got twelve O.W.L.s, and Percy took every course he could. If they did it, I can too."
She tilted her chin up, her brown eyes blazing in the firelight.
She knew she might not match Dylan's breadth of knowledge.
Dylan always had obscure research notes after class that even professors marveled at, clearly plotting his future.
But a future was one thing.
Exams were another.
Those tests, with their clear boundaries and right answers, were like targets on parchment.
If she worked hard enough, she'd hit the bullseye every time.
Dylan grinned at her stubborn streak, then shifted gears.
"Bet you're only using that Time-Turner for classes, huh?"
Thud!
Hermione's quill nearly slipped from her hand.
She whipped her head up, scanning the bustling common room.
Fred and George were showing younger kids how to make colored foam with butterbeer.
Dean and Seamus were bickering over a wizard chess match.
No one was looking at their corner.
"No one's watching," Dylan said, waving a hand and tapping his glass. "They're all caught up in Quidditch and candy. Who's got time to stare at you doing homework?"
Hermione exhaled, lowering her voice. "Of course! But we swore, didn't we?"
Her hand instinctively touched the gold chain around her neck.
The Time-Turner pendant, cool against her skin.
When McGonagall gave it to her, she'd stressed it was for classwork only.
"Yeah, swore to use it for studying."
Dylan pointed at the four open books on her desk.
Magical Draughts and Potions, Advanced Transfiguration Guide, A History of Magic Timeline, and, buried beneath, Divining the Future: Crystal Ball Basics.
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