As time moved into late May, the end of the school year was clearly in sight, hovering on the horizon like a distant but steadily approaching shore.

The approaching summer vacation and the final task of the Triwizard Tournament, now just over two weeks away, close enough to count down the days brought students intense joy that successfully diluted much of the tension created by the equally imminent final exams.

“Stay focused, Mr. Potter!”

But Professor McGonagall wouldn’t give the young wizards even a moment’s chance to relax or let their minds wander.

In Transfiguration class, when Harry and Ron took advantage of the chaos of students attempting to transfigure dried cod to whisper urgently about Hagrid’s mysterious return the last night.

They’d gone to visit him immediately, of course, rushing down to his hut as soon as they’d heard he was back. But frustratingly, Hagrid had refused to tell them anything about the injuries on his face.

“And Mr. Weasley—I see you find your friend’s struggles amusing—”

Professor McGonagall’s crisp voice cut through their whispered speculation.

She pursed her thin lips into an even thinner line and strode forward from the front of the classroom with a stern, grim expression that made several nearby students immediately straighten in their seats and pretend to be deeply absorbed in their work.

As she passed Seamus Finnigan’s desk, she glanced down at the cod he was working on which was beginning to emit concerning wisps of smoke after one of Seamus’s typically haphazard wand operations.

Years of teaching experience made her instinctively move away from it by several feet. Then she turned and glared coldly at Ron, who was barely suppressing snickers because of Seamus’s impending disaster.

Professor McGonagall’s gaze fell upon the dried cod sitting on the two boys’ shared desk, and her expression grew even more disapproving.

According to her specified requirements at the beginning of class, the fish should now be completely transformed into the shape of pencil holders. But the dried cod on Harry and Ron’s table had only managed to curl their bodies into vaguely cylindrical shapes, looking more like fish trying yoga poses.

Their exteriors were still completely, fish scales, fins, dead glassy eyes and all.

“If you cannot successfully transform your cod into proper pencil holders before this class ends, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley—”

Professor McGonagall said in her most severe tone.

“Then I’m afraid I’ll have to inform you that you’ll need to write a separate twenty-inch essay discussing in detail how intermediate transfiguration spells should be properly adjusted for cross-species transformation. With footnotes and proper citations.”

She paused to let that sink in, watching their faces fall.

“Additionally, you’ll need to come to my office this weekend for remedial practice both Saturday and Sunday if necessary and you won’t be allowed to leave until you’ve successfully mastered this particular transfiguration spell to my complete satisfaction. Is that perfectly clear?”

Harry and Ron looked utterly crestfallen; their faces were showing pure misery.

“This is undoubtedly targeting us, Harry—”

Ron muttered under his breath, barely moving his lips, speaking from the corner of his mouth like a prisoner in a cell trying not to attract the guard’s attention.

“Seamus’s cod is even worse than ours! At least ours has somewhat of a pencil holder shape, right? A bit. If we can’t complete it and have to write an extra essay, then Seamus should—”

BANG!

The explosion that had been building finally erupted with spectacular strength. White smoke filled the area like a small mushroom cloud, spreading rapidly across several desks.

Students shrieked and coughed. Seamus had his entire face suddenly blackened with soot as if he’d stuck his head up a chimney, then rolled his eyes back in his head and collapsed sideways, slumping over his desk with a groan.

The classroom fell into shocked silence for two seconds before laughter began swelling through the students.

“Mr. Longbottom—”

Professor McGonagall took a deep, resigned breath. She pinched the bridge of her nose briefly.

“Would you kindly take Mr. Finnigan to the hospital wing so Madam Pomfrey can attend to him? When he wakes up and regains consciousness, please tell him he needs to complete the same homework assignment as Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley. Plus, an additional six inches on the dangers of overcharging transformation spells.”

“Happy to oblige, Professor McGonagall—”

Neville set down his own exquisite pencil holder and said cheerfully with genuine helpfulness. His confidence had grown remarkably over the past months.

Then he effortlessly hoisted the still-groaning Seamus onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, demonstrating the considerable strength he’d developed through Physical Education training, and left the classroom amid waves of laughter.

Ron was struck speechless. He had absolutely nothing more to say in his own defense.

“Help us, Hermione! Please!”

Taking advantage of Professor McGonagall being distracted cleaning up the mess on Seamus’s desk, Harry anxiously called out in a whisper to Hermione, who was sitting primly at the desk beside theirs, looking at them sideways.

“Hmph—”

Hermione gave a rather haughty, deliberate sniff, her nose rising into the air with exaggerated disdain. Then she turned her head away, presenting them with her profile as if they were beneath her notice.

But a few seconds later, she turned sideways again, restored her own already-perfectly-formed pencil holder back into a cod. Then she began demonstrating the technique for the two frantic boys, her wand movements were slow and exaggerated so they could follow.

In the end, after several failed attempts that left their cod looking gradually more confused and distorted, Harry and Ron were fortunate enough to finally successfully transfigure their dried cod into passable pencil holders precisely two minutes before the end of class.

“Phew, thank Merlin—”

Having saved his weekend from doom, Harry wiped the cold sweat that had accumulated on his forehead with the back of his hand and flashed Hermione a grateful, slightly sheepish smile, only to receive an eye roll in return.

Students bustling eagerly toward the Great Hall for lunch crowded the spiral staircase in a noisy, jostling mass. The trio moved slowly down with the general flow, unable to move faster than the crowd allowed.

The weather outside was terribly hot. Even the wind blowing into the castle through the tall archways in the tower walls was warm and sluggish.

Harry gazed out one of the windows they passed, looking down at the Black Lake far below. Its surface was shimmering with luster under the sun, the swelling waves were catching the light like a silver ribbon fluttering and rippling in the breeze.

He wished desperately he could be down there swimming instead of trapped in this suffocating castle.

And the Forbidden Forest… the Forbidden Forest…

Harry squinted at the vast primeval forest, and a thought suddenly emerged in his mind.

Recently, students all over the castle had been discussing the gradually approaching third task of the tournament, speculating wildly about what it might involve.

Unlike the first task with the dragons and second task in the lake, the champions had received absolutely no hints this time. Even Hagrid, who usually knew something about everything happening on the grounds, knew nothing about it this time. He’d told them so directly.

Now, there was probably only one person in the entire castle who knew for certain what this final competition would entail, and that was Professor Watson. Because according to the rumors circulating through the students, the plan for this concluding event had been designed completely by him.

Harry came back to his senses with a slight shake of his head, preparing to discuss with Hermione and Ron the possibility of the competition taking place in the Forbidden Forest—for instance, having the champions hunt those terrifying giant Acromantulas.

But he was surprised to discover that the queue on the crowded spiral staircase hadn’t moved forward for quite some time. They were completely stuck.

Ron and Hermione were both standing on tiptoe, craning their necks and rising up on their toes to peer over the heads of the students in front of them, trying to look down around the curve of the spiral to see who or what was blocking the way.

“Damn it, this is torture—”

Ron complained quietly but with genuine suffering, rubbing his stomach which was making loud growling noises that several nearby students could hear.

“I desperately need chicken legs and delicious pudding to soothe my stomach. If I find out which inconsiderate idiot is blocking the entire staircase and keeping me from food…”

“Don’t be so harsh, Ron—”

Hermione said calmly, though even she was starting to look a bit impatient.

“Perhaps some poor first-year student got their foot stuck in one of those trick stairs—”

“Even so, it doesn’t change the basic fact that the unlucky fool is an idiot for not knowing better—”

Ron continued sarcastically.

“It’s been almost a full school year, hasn’t it? We’re weeks from the end of term! Harry and I never fell for those tricks even in our first year.”

Harry pressed his lips together uncomfortably, feeling somewhat guilty as he deliberately avoided Hermione’s knowing, teasing gaze.

“Hey, Ron—Ron!”

Lavender Brown who was several steps ahead of them in line with Parvati, seemed to have found out what was causing the blockage. She turned around and waved her hand excitedly at Ron.

“It’s your brother, Ron!”

“My brother?”

Ron still couldn’t quite overcome his awkwardness about talking intimately with Lavender in public. He deliberately avoided the gazes of both Hermione and Harry, as his ears were turning red. He frowned as he called back.

“You mean Fred and George had some kind of accident? That seems unlikely—those two could dodge all the castle’s traps with their eyes closed and both hands tied behind their backs. They probably reproduced half of them.”

“Not them!”

Lavender’s eyelashes fluttered as she called out in an excited, almost gleeful voice that Harry and Hermione couldn’t quite understand.

“It’s Percy—Percy’s back in the castle, and Professor Watson is talking to him right now!”

The slow-moving queue finally began to move again. Students flowed down the stairs like a released flood, everyone was eager to see what was happening.

The trio exchanged quick glances, each seeing confusion in the others’ eyes.

“Percy?”

Ron frowned deeply.

“He certainly didn’t come back to Hogwarts just to reminisce about his school days and visit his old teachers. You both know his style well—he wouldn’t want to be away from his precious Ministry work for even a single second. He’s obsessed with his career.”

“Could it be related to the tournament somehow?”

Harry looked at Hermione questioningly and guessed, saying what seemed like the most logical explanation.

“Maybe he’s representing the Ministry of Magic to communicate with Professor Watson about the content of the next competition? About the third task? It’s about time someone from the Ministry checked in on it, isn’t it?”

“But as far as I know—”

Hermione’s eyebrows crumpled as she thought carefully.

“Since Barty Crouch’s death, Percy was transferred out of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Oh, where exactly is he working now, Ron? Which department? Do you know?”

“I haven’t asked, actually.”

Ron shrugged innocently.

After a moment of silence, all three instinctively quickened their pace, working hard to push through the crowded masses of students who were mostly oblivious to any drama, just focused on reaching lunch.

After descending to the third floor, instead of continuing down the stairs toward the Great Hall and food, they made a sharp turn into the third-floor corridor.

“We’ll have a good reason for interjecting, won’t we, Hermione?”

Harry asked nervously.

“I mean, if Professor Watson asks us what we want from him, why we’re there—”

“We have a perfectly ready-made reason, Harry—”

Though nearly running now, Hermione’s breathing remained impressively steady.

“It’s about the night Hagrid came back—about what happened to you. Your scar.”

“Oh! Right!”

Ron raised his eyebrows in sudden surprised understanding, catching on to what Hermione was suggesting. His voice dropped to a whisper even though they were alone in this section of corridor.

“You’re planning to have Harry tell Professor Watson that when his scar hurt, he saw You-Know-Who again?”

“Perhaps it’s the opposite, actually—perhaps his scar hurt because he saw You-Know-Who, not the other way around.”

Hermione corrected, even while hurrying. Then she slowed her pace, her eyes were burning with intensity as she looked at the somewhat hesitant Harry.

“In any case, I can’t think of any good reason not to let Professor Watson and Professor Dumbledore know about this, Harry. Can you?”

————————————

For More Chapters; /FicFrenzy

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep