Harry felt he'd been busy to the point where his feet barely touched the ground lately.
The fire in the Gryffindor common room fireplace crackled, making his dark circles appear even more prominent.
For the Quidditch match, he had to suspend his morning training sessions with Sherlock once again—he'd already lost count of how many times this had happened.
He scratched irritably at his messy black hair. It wasn't that he wanted to slack off.
It was just that he felt his energy was like the potion in Seamus's cauldron, unknowingly draining out through the burned-through bottom.
There were only seven days in a week, and now five evenings were spent at the Quidditch pitch, where the wooden broomstick handle left shallow red marks on his palms every time.
One evening was spent with Professor Lupin practicing the Patronus Charm, the silver mist always flickering uncertainly at his wand tip.
The last evening had to be devoted to battling mountains of homework, ink drying in dark stains on his fingertips.
Under these circumstances, it would be strange if he wasn't exhausted.
Neville, who maintained perfect attendance, expressed his understanding and even proactively comforted Harry.
"It's okay, once this match is over, you can join us for morning training again."
That's precisely why Harry found it so puzzling.
He was already in this state, yet Hermione seemed even busier than him.
After some time into the term, the reserve of relaxed holiday spirit she'd brought back finally seemed depleted.
Every evening she appeared nailed to an armchair in the Gryffindor common room, her table spread with a bewildering array of items.
Advanced Arithmancy lay open on star charts, her Ancient Runes dictionary had a quill stuck between its pages, Muggle Studies diagrams sat beside rolls of parchment covered in tiny, ant-like handwriting.
Her fingers constantly hovered above the parchment, her whole being in a state of extreme irritability. Aside from occasionally speaking in low tones with Sherlock, she barely acknowledged anyone.
When Harry withdrew his gaze, his shoulders slumped unconsciously.
He really couldn't understand why Hermione was pushing herself like this, but he had his own problems to deal with.
The essay Professor Snape had assigned on Twelve Disguising Forms of Undetectable Potions had parchment edges that were already fraying from his grip.
Although Harry was grateful for Professor Snape providing him chocolate during the public trial, this did absolutely nothing to diminish his loathing for this essay.
Incidentally, shortly after term began, the reporter Rita Skeeter—who had published that article titled Potions Master and Returning Hero Stage Custody Battle—actually printed an apology in the Daily Prophet.
She claimed her numerous viewpoints in that previous article were purely subjective speculation without solid evidence to support them.
In fact, Potions Master Severus Snape and the Boy Who Lived Harry Potter had a normal teacher-student relationship, and there was no competition whatsoever with the triumphant hero Sirius Black.
She asked everyone to forgive the misunderstanding caused, and so on.
The gang all speculated whether Snape had gone to threaten or bribe Rita Skeeter.
Otherwise, why would she eat her words and slap her own face?
A classmate named Yuri Lane even boldly proposed a hypothesis—Snape must have gone and poisoned her!
As for Sherlock, he just smiled knowingly at this.
"How on earth does she do it?"
Noticing Harry's gaze, Ron couldn't help muttering quietly, "I genuinely don't understand how she manages to attend all her classes?"
At this moment, Hermione's face was almost completely hidden behind a precarious stack of books.
The hard cover of Unfogging the Future leaned diagonally on How Muggles Invented the Light Bulb, with strands of brown hair poking out from between the book spines.
Her cheeks bore an unhealthy flush, and the shadows under her eyes were even darker than Harry's.
In contrast, Sherlock sat beside her, fingers dancing over the solar system activity model they'd bought together in Diagon Alley, occasionally taking a small sip from the hip flask, he pulled from his pocket after some time.
One full of vitality, one increasingly haggard.
Yet the two sat together, forming an even starker contrast.
Ron continued in a lowered voice.
"Just this morning, I heard her talking with Professor Vector—you know, the witch who teaches you Arithmancy.
They were actually discussing yesterday's lesson, but Hermione couldn't possibly have attended class!
You see, at that time she was with us in Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures class!
Also, Ernie Macmillan told me Hermione has never missed a single Muggle Studies lesson.
But half of them conflict with Divination class times, and the amazing thing is, she's with us for every Divination class!"
Harry's quill scratched a crooked line across the parchment.
He didn't have time to puzzle over Hermione's inexplicable schedule right now. Professor Snape's essay deadline was approaching fast, and he really needed to finish it.
So, he directly offered a suggestion. "Why don't you just ask Sherlock? He definitely knows the answer!"
"You think I haven't asked!"
Ron said irritably.
He'd specifically gone over to Sherlock and Hermione's side just now, but barely got started before Hermione snapped at him and drove him away.
This left him quite depressed.
Hermione wasn't like this anymore, so why had she suddenly become this way again?
"If that's the case, she must have some secret," Harry said, putting down his quill and rubbing his aching wrist.
"But we're friends!" Ron said miserably. "She shouldn't be hiding things from us."
"Everyone at Hogwarts has secrets, my friend," Harry sighed. "Since she doesn't want to say, let's just leave it alone."
Ron's eyes widened suddenly. "You're copying Sherlock's way of speaking again!"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "I am not."
"You are!"
"I am not!"
"You are!"
"Please, my dear Ron," Harry pulled the parchment closer, ink spreading into a small blot on the paper, "I still have homework to finish. Could you please not talk to me for now?"
"Fine, fine, fine, you're starting to find me annoying just like Hermione does. I'll go, I'll go, okay?"
Harry: ...
The tail end of January slipped quietly away, and February arrived with equally biting cold winds.
Snow outside the castle froze solid as stone slabs, icicles hung from the eaves like crystal spears, reflecting the pale skylight.
Cold wind whistled through cracks in the corridors, sounding like countless invisible hands pounding on the windows.
As the Quidditch match against Ravenclaw approached day by day, the atmosphere in the castle seemed affected by the weather, growing increasingly tense.
The Weasley twins pulled a stunt—on the Gryffindor common room notice board, a countdown parchment was fixed with a spell, the numbers updating automatically each morning.
Harry poured his main energy into Quidditch training, sweat soaking his team uniform, quickly crystallizing into tiny ice crystals in the cold wind.
Perhaps due to this shift in focus, his anti-Dementor training lessons became bumpy as well.
In the following several lessons, when the Boggart transformed into a Dementor and drifted toward him with its rotting stench, he fainted twice more.
Harry was angry with himself. Even though Sherlock had already spoken to him about it, he still secretly longed to hear his parents' voices again.
Later, after painful soul-searching, he made up his mind, and this stopped happening.
But even so, the practice results weren't ideal.
Because whenever the Boggart-turned-Dementor advanced on him, even with all his might he could only produce a vague silvery-white shadow—call it a Patronus, for lack of a better term.
But this Patronus was too weak, nowhere near strong enough to drive away the Dementor.
It merely hung there like a semi-transparent cloud.
Harry had already exhausted all his energy just keeping it from disappearing.
Yet it still just hung there like a semi-transparent cloud, its edges constantly dissipating and reforming.
"You're expecting too much of yourself!"
In the fourth week's training session, Professor Lupin lowered his wand, his expression serious.
"For a thirteen-year-old wizard, an incorporeal Patronus is already a very remarkable achievement.
Besides, you're not fainting anymore, are you?"
"I thought a Patronus was supposed to drive away Dementors," Harry said dejectedly, "like you did on the train."
"A true Patronus can indeed do that," Lupin said, "but you can't manage that yet."
Perhaps sensing he'd been too stern, Lupin's tone softened somewhat, speaking as gently as possible.
"Harry, I'm not just trying to make you feel better. For two thirteen-year-old wizards, this is truly remarkable."
"I'm fourteen," Sherlock interjected from the side.
His birthday was in January, while Harry's was in July.
"...Even at fourteen, it's remarkable."
Lupin paused, then smiled and shook his head, his tone carrying a hint of helplessness. "You've already made tremendous progress in a very short time."
He paused, clearing his throat as if organizing his thoughts.
"It seems you still don't have sufficient understanding of the Patronus Charm's difficulty. Let me explain again.
In your fifth-year O.W.L. exams, the Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum won't include this spell at all.
If anyone can cast it, they'll definitely receive substantial bonus points—even just an indistinct Patronus.
Even for most adult wizards, being able to summon a incorporeal Patronus is considered a mark of superior magical ability.
Even at Hogwarts, only the headmaster and the four House Heads can successfully summon complete Patronuses."
"And you, Professor," Harry said immediately.
"Compared to the other professors, I'm nothing worth mentioning."
Lupin waved his hand dismissively, his tone modest.
Compared to Harry's incorporeal Patronus, the one Sherlock summoned had a much clearer form.
At least you could make out the outline of a lion, its silver mane floating slightly in the air.
However, since Sherlock was practicing using Harry's fear of Dementors, the situation was somewhat troublesome.
As soon as he cast the Patronus Charm, the Boggart would transform into a paralyzed Sherlock, sitting in a wheelchair drooling, eyes vacant.
Then casting the Boggart-specific spell "Riddikulus," the paralyzed Sherlock would become a spirited Sherlock.
So, he didn't know whether his summoned Patronus could actually dispel Dementors.
"Even if it can't dispel them, with your current level you can temporarily control them,"
Professor Lupin said. "I have complete confidence in you both."
Seeing that Professor Lupin didn't seem to be consoling them, and glancing at Sherlock who gave him an affirmative look, Harry finally relaxed, his tense shoulders easing somewhat.
"All right, I see you haven't been to Hogsmeade this month, so I brought you some goodies from the Three Broomsticks," he said, pulling three amber bottles from his briefcase.
"Excellent, it's Butterbeer!"
Harry said without hesitation upon seeing them. "I love this stuff!"
Sherlock tilted his head. "I still prefer brandy."
"Brandy has too high an alcohol content, this is more suitable for us."
Lupin said, handing the Butterbeers to them before raising his glass.
"Well then—let's wish for Gryffindor to defeat Ravenclaw!"
After saying this, he suddenly realized something was wrong and quickly added.
"Er—as a professor I shouldn't show favoritism, so let's wish for both Gryffindor and Ravenclaw to give their all!"
Although Sherlock said he preferred brandy, Butterbeer was indeed quite good.
The three chatted while drinking their beers, and once they'd finished, Professor Lupin stood up.
"All right, that's it for today. Harry, I'm afraid you'll have to return to the dormitory alone today."
Harry looked up with some surprise. "Why?"
"Albus asked me to bring Sherlock to him after today's training ends."
"Dumbledore wants Sherlock?" Harry's eyes widened further; his tone full of surprise. "Why?"
"I don't know either," Lupin shook his head, spreading his hands to show he was uninformed. "He didn't tell me the specific reason."
Harry looked at Sherlock somewhat nervously, but the latter gave him a slight smile, his expression calm.
"It's all right, my friend. I think I already know why Dumbledore wants to see me."
"Why?"
Harry asked the same question for the third time.
Even Professor Lupin looked at Sherlock curiously, a trace of inquiry flashing in his eyes.
He too wanted to know the reason for the headmaster's sudden summons of this boy.
He hadn't lied—Dumbledore had merely asked him to bring Sherlock to the headmaster's office after today's training ended, without telling him why.
But Sherlock was saying he already knew?
"Remember what I told you on the train at the end of second year, my dear Harry,"
Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "The matter delayed by the Prisoner of Azkaban's appearance is finally about to begin!"
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