Chapter 155
Time passed quickly. People always longed for exciting lives, yet ordinary daily life was often the most precious thing of all.
June had arrived. The weather was hot and cloudless. Everyone wanted nothing more than to stroll outside, lie on the grass with a few glasses of iced pumpkin juice, play games, or watch the giant squid glide dreamily through the lake.
But almost no one did.
Exams were approaching.
Instead of enjoying the summer, students remained inside the castle, resisting the warm breeze drifting through the windows and forcing their minds to work.
---
"Why do I have to sit in this boring library, reading boring textbooks written by boring old men in weather like this?" Pansy complained for the eleventh time, tossing her book aside. She looked at Draco expectantly, though even she didn't know what she hoped he would do—perhaps rescue her from her misery.
"Mr. Zygmunt Budge would probably cry in his grave if he heard you say that," Draco replied calmly, closing his own book.
"Snape went easy on us in Defence Against the Dark Arts. History of Magic doesn't really matter if we fail. The Care of Magical Creatures teacher looks kind too…" Pansy began counting the easier subjects on her fingers.
"Transfiguration is the strictest. That old professor never shows mercy, so we have to work harder. I've been paying attention in Charms this term, so that should be fine. And there's Divination…"
"Divination?" Draco raised an eyebrow. "I thought you'd given up on that."
"Well…" Pansy hesitated, then said softly, "Actually, I think Professor Trelawney is interesting sometimes."
"In that case, I suppose I'll have a personal fortune-teller in the future," Draco said lightly.
"You're the quack! It's called prophecy—it has a basis!" Pansy snapped, clearly hitting a sore spot.
"Alright, alright. Miss Pansy, future great Seer, please forgive this ignorant commoner. Guide this lost lamb," Draco said with mock solemnity.
Pansy's face flushed red.
"Enough joking," Draco said, turning serious. "Focus on revision. I'll help you later. Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration exam won't be easy."
"…Fine," Pansy muttered, reluctantly returning to the heavy book.
But when Divination came up, her mood was far heavier than she showed.
She still remembered Professor Trelawney's warning:
Stay away from the boy who came with you last time. His future is chaotic. I see blood, disaster, and misfortune.
Sometimes the professor's ramblings were nonsense. But at other times, her eyes would become clear, her voice deep and distant, as if filled with something strange and compelling—like the song of a siren. No matter how absurd the words sounded, they were difficult to dismiss.
And afterward, Trelawney would remember nothing.
Pansy never told Draco about this. She preferred to believe it was meaningless.
Still, fear of the future drove her to keep attending the class.
It never hurts to be cautious, she told herself.
---
"This is what you get for copying my homework."
Hermione looked sternly at the two boys in front of her. Crookshanks lounged on the sofa beside her, lazily waving a paw and yawning in agreement.
The Gryffindor common room fireplace had long gone cold for the summer. Scarlet armchairs sat empty; most students preferred the library, believing the comfortable lounge encouraged laziness.
Harry and Ron had chosen this place only because Hermione was tutoring them.
Her Time-Turner had been confiscated before exams, several classes were dropped, and for the first time she had spare time—time she now used to rescue her two struggling friends.
"Ron," Hermione said sharply, tapping the table with her wand, "what potion uses shrivelfigs as a key ingredient?"
"I'm starting to think you're related to Professor McGonagall," Ron groaned, turning away. "Sorry. I forgot."
Hermione sighed. "Harry and I spent ages chopping them for you last time."
"The Shrinking Solution!" Ron snapped his fingers, finally remembering.
"Good. Now—where does the best variety of shrivelfigs grow?"
Ron froze.
"…Northern Europe?"
Hermione looked at him with pity. "You two are still far behind. Passing will already be difficult—especially with Snape marking."
She added firmly, "Albania."
Harry and Ron could only accept their fate and keep studying.
And lately, they had noticed something else—Snape was not pleased to be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts. If anything, he seemed even more irritable. He missed no opportunity to make things difficult for them. Whenever he saw Harry, a muscle beside his mouth twitched, and his fingers flexed as if he wanted to seize him by the throat.
Time, however, showed no mercy.
It did not slow down simply because some students were unprepared. It moved forward with cold, impartial certainty.