Next morning, the storm had subsided, but the ceiling of the Great Hall was still covered with clouds of gloom.
"Good morning, boys."
Hermione sat down beside Ginny, yawning, and gave a quick glance at the group of boys who were huddled together, discussing some magical way to suddenly increase their age, slip through the age line, compete in the Eight-Team Tournament, win the three thousand Galleon prize, then marry a rich and beautiful woman and reach the pinnacle of life—
"Morning, you're eating again?"
Noticing Hermione calmly spreading jam on her bread, Harry blinked and said.
"I've figured out that there are better ways to protect House-Elf rights."
Hermione raised her head proudly.
"Yeah... you were starving too."
Ron chimed in with a cheeky grin, holding both his and Harry's schedules.
"Today's not so bad... Because we're outside all morning,"
Ron's fingers slid over the schedule, Monday's column, continuing, "Herbology class, not bad, with Hufflepuff students, then Magical Creatures class... unlucky us, we're with Slytherin again, I really don't want to see Malfoy's smug face..."
"And then... two Divination classes in the afternoon today."
Harry sighed wearily, breaking his bread and looking miserable; he never liked Divination, apart from Potions, because Professor Trelawney was always predicting his impending doom, and he always felt like digging out the tea leaves and slapping them onto her face.
"Well, you could drop the subject and opt for the more credible Arithmancy—"
Hermione started smearing butter on her bread, then sandwiched the slices and stuffed them into her mouth, mumbling somewhat incoherently, "Compared to those dreadful tea (munch munch) leaves, Arithmancy at least has a simple basis, instead of relying solely on words—"
"I thought you'd give it up first—"
Neville slowly made himself a sandwich, looking a bit puzzled by Hermione's statement, since her aversion to Divination was always evident, yet she never missed a class.
"Because I am determined to excel in all my twelve exams!"
Hermione declared with a fist in the air, full of spirit.
Just then, a flurry of noise emerged over their heads, with nearly a hundred owls flying through the open windows, delivering the morning mail, a tawny old owl swooped down towards Neville Longbottom, dropping a parcel onto his lap—
No matter how much things changed, Neville always forgot something while packing.
Meanwhile, Hermione also received a letter; amid curious glances from the crowd, she started opening the wax seal, saying, "It's Prophet Daily!"
As she spoke, the girl unfolded the newspaper, and unsurprisingly, the headline was still a conspiracy theory about the World Cup attack—"Shocking! As a personal witness to the World Cup attack, he actually said this..."
Looking at that attention-grabbing expression, Hermione wrinkled her nose.
However, the following content didn't provoke any indignant outcry from her, for some "reason," Rita Skeeter had not slandered William in any way, and even praised his dueling skills, mentioning that he would serve as a referee in the Eight-Team Tournament—
Of course, "coincidentally," while praising William's abilities, a certain Potions class professor, who wished to remain anonymous, was once again dragged out for a little comparison—
How did Rita know? Oh, so hard to guess.
"It's clickbait."
Hermione set the newspaper down, focusing all her attention on her bread.
...
The fourth-year little wizards traversed the still somewhat damp vegetable patch, arriving at Greenhouse No. 3.
Professor Sprout showed a plant to the entire class, and everyone instinctively wrinkled their noses and took a step back.
In fact, these didn't seem like plants at all, but rather large, black and slimy slugs, protruding straight from the soil, each worming slightly, with many shiny blisters, seemingly filled with liquid.
"These are Bubo Bulbs."
Professor Sprout cheerfully informed them, "You need to squeeze them; you're going to collect their pus—"
"What?!"
Ron's eyes widened.
"Pus, Weasley, pus."
Professor Sprout patiently explained, "It is of great value, so not a drop should be wasted. Now, listen, collect the pus into these bottles—okay, put on your dragon skin gloves, as undiluted Bubo Bulb pus can cause unusual skin damage..."
"It's like... ugh, so disgusting."
Hermione frowned, Ron pretended to retch, and Harry's face turned pale — within the entire greenhouse, only Neville's expression remained relatively normal, even with a hint of excitement similar to Professor Sprout's. He was now staring with bright eyes at the cup filled with the pungent gasoline-smelling yellow-green liquid.
Seeing this scene, several of the young wizards who had participated in the Duel Club all had a change in their expressions —
Damn, is Longbottom planning to add this stuff to his grab bag? Then for this weekend's practical training... maybe I'll feign illness to skip it?
"Ms. Pomfrey will be pleased with this."
Professor Sprout joyfully stated while corking the last bottle, "Bubo Bulb pus is the best remedy for stubborn acne, which will stop students from using drastic measures to remove their pimples."
"Like poor Eloise Midgen," Hannah Abbott whispered, "She tried to remove her pimples with a spell before."
"Silly girl," Professor Sprout shook her head, "But Ms. Pomfrey eventually managed to put her nose back on."
A deep, resonant bell sound cut across the damp grass, coming from the direction of the castle, signaling the end of class. The Hufflepuff students walked up the stone steps to Transfiguration Class, while the Gryffindor students headed in another direction, down the sloping lawn towards Hagrid's hut at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
"What wonderful things will Hagrid bring us this time?"
Ron rubbed his hands in excitement. You know, Hagrid did quite well the whole last year, under William's repeated warnings, he hadn't brought in any overly dangerous creatures for the students, but it was still quite thrilling —
As they approached, they saw Hagrid standing outside his hut, holding the collar of his giant boarhound, Fang, with one hand.
And at his feet were a few open wooden crates, with Fang whimpering and straining against the collar as if trying to stay as far away from the crates as possible. As the students approached, a strange clattering sound reached their ears, occasionally punctuated by faint explosions.
"Good morning!"
Hagrid's voice was somewhat excited as he smiled at Harry, "Better wait for the Slytherin students, they wouldn't want to miss this — Blast-Ended Skrewts!"
...
"...they're practically demons. They are definitely not native to this world."
At the Gryffindor table, Ron stated with certainty, "Perhaps Hagrid made a deal with demons to breed such... disgusting things. He actually wants us to raise those crackling creatures! Unbelievable —"
"Those things have self-inflicted reproductive isolation, so if nothing unexpected happens, this will be both the first and last batch of Blast-Ended Skrewts —"
William joined the conversation, having seen Hagrid's... adorable little pets last night. Hagrid specifically kept them from the little wizards, claiming it would be a surprise for the class, but clearly... it was a blatant mental attack.
"You're here."
Hermione wiped her mouth and swallowed the last bite of her food.
"I'm here —"
William was just about to crack a joke, but immediately realized no one here would get it. He could only sigh, picking up Crookshanks who was curled up on Hermione's lap and rubbing the fluffy head, "So, are you done eating?" he asked Hermione.
"Of course!" Hermione quickly nodded and then stood up, "Let's go."
She took William's hand and led him out. The two had agreed the previous day to visit the Hogwarts kitchen together, as Hermione wanted to see the House-Elves firsthand.
"To walk among the people... cough cough, to walk among the elves!"
At the time, William had earnestly dissuaded the girl from starting a hunger strike, as she too knew that even if she starved herself to death, it probably wouldn't do much to advance the cause, as her words didn't carry much weight. This was why she hadn't given up on Divination class —
She had to excel to the extreme, to ensure her excellence could elevate her to a position where she could influence such matters —
For example, the Minister of Magic, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, or President of the International Confederation of Wizards?
(Dumbledore: Oh no, is she coming after me?)
After leaving the Great Hall, the two made their way to the entrance of the dining hall, tickling the pear on the painting. Under Hermione's curious gaze, a door handle appeared, and the little elves cleaning up the lunch remnants seemed somewhat confused as they raised their heads. After giving Hermione some freedom to explore, William found the few house-elves he was familiar with.
"...I don't recognize it, sir."
On Rack's face was a hint of apology, and the other house-elves beside him seemed to share the sentiment, as if not helping William was unforgivable. William sighed. Although he had anticipated the matter wouldn't be easily resolved, he couldn't help feeling a little disappointed.
"Then, could you keep an eye out and ask your friends about it —"
William took out a stack of photos from his pocket and distributed them among the house-elves, who, naturally, accepted them with expressions of utmost honor.
"We shall offer compensation —"
Hermione suddenly said, and as her words fell, the house-elves appeared momentarily stunned. Just as the girl was about to continue, the house-elves suddenly burst into a strong protest, then attempted to drive Hermione out.