In the cozy corner of the common room, Dylan lounged on a sofa, his posture relaxed and carefree.
Ron had just finished flipping through A Study of Hippogriff Habits, and Dylan had nabbed it from him. The book's pages rustled on their own, flipping without a touch, before stopping at a section titled "The Breeding Cycle of Hippogriffs."
Dylan reached out lazily, and a bunch of grapes from a nearby plate floated toward him as if they'd sprouted wings. One by one, they popped into his mouth, their sweet, juicy flavor bursting on his tongue.
Neville sat on a small stool beside him, clutching a Tarot card. The "Death" image on it was faded from how often he'd rubbed it nervously. He was one of the few students, like Dylan, who'd only signed up for Divination.
Thanks to Dylan's guidance, Neville had gotten pretty good at reading tea leaves—good enough to predict his own demise in vivid detail. Werewolf bite, drowning in a swamp, or getting soul-sucked by a Dementor: the possibilities were endless, and Neville could pick his poison.
"Dylan," Neville whispered, his eyes darting to the other students scribbling furiously around them. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his robe. "Is it really okay for us to be so… relaxed? Dean just turned in his Muggle Studies essay, Parvati's cramming for Arithmancy, and everyone's so busy. I only took Divination. Doesn't that seem… I dunno, a bit lazy?"
After all, most students could choose an extra subject or two to figure out what they were good at, what path they might take in the future. It was practically expected.
Dylan tilted his head, noticing Neville's ears turning red from overthinking. He smirked. "Look out there," he said, nodding toward the window. "See the Whomping Willow in the forest? It sprouts in spring, sheds in winter, and doesn't care when the other trees bloom."
"Neville, picking too many subjects is like planting too many trees. They won't grow properly if you spread yourself too thin."
Neville craned his neck, squinting. "But… I can't see the Whomping Willow from here."
Dylan snapped the book shut. "It's just a metaphor, mate. Don't take it so literally. Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it's not growing the way I said, right?"
He leaned forward slightly. "Or are you seriously telling me you think Arithmancy's useful? Those number games predicting the future—planning to get a job doing that? Or maybe Muggle Studies will help you grow better Mandrakes?"
Neville shook his head.
"Exactly," Dylan said, his tone turning serious. "Herbology's your thing. Didn't Professor Sprout say last week your Devil's Snare was the best in the class? You could work at a Hogsmeade herb garden, join the Ministry's Plant Regulation Department, or even open your own shop. None of that needs you to read the stars or understand how Muggle tellies work."
"Oh, and I've told you before," he added, "I reckon you could even teach at Hogwarts one day."
Neville's furrowed brow smoothed out. He looked down at his hands, calloused from handling plants. Those hands could now tell if a Mandrake's cry meant it was hungry or sick. But he couldn't just touch a crystal ball and see the future like Dylan could.
The fire in the hearth crackled, casting a warm glow on Neville's growing smile. "Maybe you're right, Dylan. I shouldn't stress about stuff that won't help me."
Dylan chuckled. "Glad you're seeing it my way."
Neville's tense shoulders relaxed, his recent worries soothed by Dylan's words. He glanced at the plate in front of him, where a cluster of plump, glossy grapes sat invitingly. Without thinking, he grabbed one, rubbing its cool skin before popping it into his mouth. The sweet juice burst with a warmth that felt oddly like sunshine.
Where does Dylan get these grapes? Neville wondered, squinting contentedly as his lips curved into a smile, his earlier unease forgotten.
But Dylan's eyes lingered on Neville's hand, his brow twitching slightly. He vividly remembered Neville cuddling his chubby toad, Trevor, in the dorm that morning, hands cradling the creature's belly. And now… those same hands were handling the grapes. Merlin's beard, he didn't even wash them.
"You just…" Dylan started, but the words died as Neville happily swallowed another grape, smacking his lips with satisfaction. Dylan swallowed his warning and looked away, suddenly losing all interest in the tempting plate of grapes.
Then again, Neville was always carrying Trevor around—eating, sleeping, the lot—and he'd never gotten sick. Maybe Trevor wasn't toxic after all. Dylan shrugged it off. Let him be.
Neville munched through a few more grapes, then noticed Dylan hadn't touched them. "Hey, why'd you stop? These are amazing—juicy and sweet."
Dylan's mouth twitched into a strained smile. "Yeah? Well, I'm full. You finish 'em. Just… clean the plate when you're done."
"Really? Awesome!" Neville grinned, pulling the plate closer.
By the day of the Quidditch final, Hogwarts was buzzing with excitement. When the Gryffindor team walked into the Great Hall, they were met with a thunderous wave of applause. Ravenclaws clapped cheerfully from their table, Hufflepuffs banged on theirs so hard the plates rattled, and only the Slytherins hissed and jeered, their taunts drowned out by the other houses.
"Slytherin's still ahead by over a hundred points!" Oliver Wood boomed, standing at the Gryffindor table, his voice brimming with intensity. His eyes locked on Harry. "Harry, you've got to catch the Snitch, but not until we're at least fifty points up. Got it? That's the only way we'll overtake them and win the Cup!"
He plopped a roasted potato onto Harry's plate. "Eat up. You'll need the energy."
"Er, got it," Harry mumbled, adding a piece of roast beef to his plate.
Wood didn't notice, already moving on to the other players, clapping their shoulders and muttering encouragement with a do-or-die expression.
As the Gryffindor team left the hall, the applause roared even louder. Cho Chang, standing with the Ravenclaws, waved at Harry with a bright smile. "Good luck, Harry!"
Harry's face flushed scarlet. His eyes darted away, then snuck back to her, his hand waving awkwardly.
Cedric, clapping nearby, slowed to a stop, his eyes narrowing. On the way to the stands, he sidled up to Dylan, his voice low but certain. "I'm telling you, Dylan, Potter's got a thing for Cho. Did you see how red he went? Couldn't hide it if he tried."
Dylan glanced at Cho, who was chatting with friends, her smile radiant. "So what?" he said lightly. "You like her, she likes you. That's all that matters. You can't control who fancies her. Besides, with a girlfriend that pretty, it's no surprise others notice. Don't you have your own fan club?"
Cedric shot a nervous glance at Cho, lowering his voice. "That's not what I meant…"
"Oh, come on," Dylan teased, reading him like an open book. "You're rattled because it's the 'Boy Who Lived,' aren't you?"
"No way," Cedric muttered, but his bravado fizzled. He scratched his head, sheepish. "Okay, maybe a little. I just… don't know what Cho thinks about him. You know, the whole 'Chosen One' thing."
"Stop overthinking, mate," Dylan said, nodding toward Cho. "Talk to her. Chat about the match, the tactics, whatever. When Harry comes up, listen to her tone. You'll know if she's just talking Quidditch or if there's something else."
"Does Cho even know Harry likes her?" Cedric asked, uncertain.
Dylan snorted. "With the way Harry looks at her? It's like he's got 'I fancy you' written across his forehead."
Cedric frowned, sensing there was more to Dylan's words but unable to pin it down. "Fine, I'll try," he said, taking a deep breath before jogging toward Cho.
Dylan watched Cedric's stiff gait, chuckling to himself. Sharp as a wand normally, but a complete dolt when it comes to feelings. How'd he even snag Cho so fast? Shaking his head, he headed to the stands.
Madam Hooch stood in the center of the pitch, her silver whistle raised high. The crowd fell silent, the air still for a moment. Then—
Tweet!
The piercing whistle cut through the sky, and the most anticipated Quidditch match of the year kicked off.
"Look! Gryffindor's got the Quaffle!" Lee Jordan's voice blared through the magical megaphone, crackling with excitement. "Alicia Spinnet's zooming toward Slytherin's goalposts like an arrow—clean moves, blazing speed—Alicia! Oh, no! Blimey, Warrington's stolen the Quaffle!"
The Gryffindor stands groaned in disappointment, some fans slapping their thighs, while Slytherin's side let out scattered cheers.
Dylan leaned against the railing, watching the game with mild interest. He'd seen countless Quidditch matches by now and, while he didn't share the school's feverish obsession, he could follow the plays—who was chasing the Quaffle, who was blocking, who was dodging Bludgers.
His gaze drifted to the crowd, then froze on a familiar figure. "Luna?!" he blurted, half-convinced he was seeing things.
"Hi!" Luna turned slowly, her dreamy smile as serene as ever. She was wearing an eye-catching hat—a massive lion's head, complete with a fluffy mane and bared fangs, so lifelike it looked like her head was inside its jaws.
Dylan stared at the hat, a memory flickering. He'd seen something like it in a vision during Divination, but that was years away, when Luna would enchant it to move. This one was just an intricate handmade piece.
Without thinking, he drew his wand and flicked it at the hat, murmuring a quick animation charm. The lion's eyes blinked, its amber pupils swiveling, before it opened its jaws and let out a mighty roar, startling the people nearby.
"Oh!" Luna smoothed her blonde hair, tousled by the roar's gust, her smile unfazed and even a bit delighted. "Thanks!"
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