Dumbledore urging Vaughn to return to Hogwarts as soon as possible was, of course, because Harry had finally mastered Occlumency.
That breakthrough had come two days earlier, on an ordinary night when dark clouds and fine rain once again blanketed the Scottish Highlands.
Harry, as usual, dragged his feet, hesitating and stalling until well past midnight before reluctantly making his way to the Potions classroom. Professor Snape firmly believed that the study-and-rest room inside the Room of Requirement was far too comfortable—and therefore entirely unsuitable for Occlumency practice.
Even days later, Harry could still vividly remember the malicious drawl in Snape's voice when he suggested changing locations in front of Dumbledore:
"A lazy, comfort-addicted fool needs a harsher environment to remind him that what he's learning now may very well save his miserable little life."
Harry strongly suspected that Snape had chosen the dungeons not merely for privacy, but because they were cold, damp, and remote—so unpleasant that even Slytherin students avoided them when there were no classes.
An ideal place for disposing of a body.
That day, Harry angrily complained to Ron and Hermione, hoping his two best friends would stay close to him recently—just in case Snape decided to murder him quietly one night.
Hermione, however, dismissed his worries outright.
"There's no need to worry," she said calmly. "Professor Snape wouldn't kill you. That would be unnecessary. He'd just break into your mind, plant terrifying self-destructive thoughts, and you'd jump off the Astronomy Tower all by yourself."
Harry turned deathly pale, his lips going white.
Thankfully, Ron never failed to cheer him up.
"Ha! Snape thinks the dungeon's unpleasant? I thought he liked living in a bat cave!"
Ron laughed loudly in the busy corridor—
And was immediately caught by Professor McGonagall.
The fair but fearsome Deputy Headmistress trembled with rage.
"Weasley! How dare you slander and insult a professor! It seems your last detention taught you nothing. Now go and scrub the lavatories—without magic. Hand over your wand!"
Ron hemmed and hawed, clearly unwilling.
Hermione, trying to be helpful, spoke up,
"Professor, Ronald doesn't even know the Cleaning Charm yet. Whether he has his wand or not makes no difference."
Ron stared at her in disbelief, unable to comprehend how someone could be so cruel—exposing his academic inadequacy in front of McGonagall of all people.
As expected, McGonagall's expression darkened further.
"Mr Weasley, if my memory serves me correctly, the Cleaning Charm is one of the simplest spells taught in first year. Professor Flitwick covered it three months ago. Even a mountain troll, given three months—"
Her good manners prevented her from finishing the sentence.
But her barely contained fury did not.
She seized Ron by the ear and marched him off to her office under the fascinated gazes of passing students.
Watching Ron's tragic retreat, Harry couldn't help smiling.
When you're forced to face someone who hates you—and might even want to kill you—every single day, seeing a carefree companion suffer just a little becomes strangely comforting.
I really wish he'd be unlucky with me.
Harry felt unexpectedly cheerful. Even the gloomy sky seemed brighter.
Still, Hermione's words lingered in his mind.
That night, he resisted Snape's Legilimency with everything he had.
The scene was… bizarre.
One tall, one small, staring each other down in the dungeon, faces twisted into ferocious expressions.
Only when one of them was completely exhausted would they both shudder, stop, and gasp for breath.
It was not a dignified sight.
Even after practice ended, Harry remained tense. Fear and anxiety pushed him to tap into potential he'd never imagined he had.
On the morning of the 21st, Harry opened his eyes and instinctively surveyed his surroundings—a habit he'd recently developed.
Although his Occlumency was not fully stable yet, it usually collapsed during sleep, triggering the punishment mechanism of his automatic response personality.
Harry had nearly lost count of how many people—or animals—he had "turned into" since that personality had been implanted.
But today was different.
He was still in his familiar dormitory.
To his right, Neville lay sprawled across his bed, clutching a Remembrall glowing red. Whatever he'd forgotten this time, it was clearly important.
To his left slept Ron, with Scabbers locked in a cage on the bedside table. The fat rat yawned awake and stared blankly at Harry.
Seeing Scabbers made Harry recall—against his will—the last time it had wriggled inside his mouth.
Ugh!
He quickly turned away, sat up, and pinched himself hard.
The pain was sharp and real.
Not a dream.
Harry's first thought was confusion—had the automatic response personality failed?
He immediately rejected that idea.
Because he could clearly feel it.
His thoughts were wrapped in something faint yet unmistakable—a thin, icy-cool barrier encasing his mind. It had no physical form, more like a sensation. If he didn't focus on it, he might have mistaken it for imagination.
"This is… Occlumency?"
Harry whispered uncertainly.
He had never felt this cool sensation before—but Vaughn had told him that one day, when it felt like something extra existed in his mind, that would mean he had truly mastered it.
…Snape had said the same thing.
Cold. Cool. Burning. Hollow.
Everyone's Occlumency was different—it depended on what "materials" you used to construct it.
Those materials could be fabricated memories—or emotions.
Harry was still unsure, when Ron suddenly bolted upright beside him, face flushed.
"Professor McGonagall, I really can't eat anymore, I—"
His voice cut off as he and Harry stared at each other.
"Er… Ron," Harry said innocently, "were you dreaming?"
"Y–Yeah…"
Harry's eyes flickered with mischief.
"I remember McGonagall told you to scrub toilets yesterday. Why were you dreaming about eating…?"
Ron lunged for him in a panic, trying to cover his mouth.
After some roughhousing, they headed to breakfast. Once they found Hermione, Harry finally told her about the strange sensation in his mind and his suspicion.
"That's wonderful!" Ron slapped the table. "Now you never have to see that old bat again—"
His voice dwindled under Hermione's deadly glare.
He muttered resentfully,
"Hmph. Yesterday you stabbed me in the back in front of McGonagall, and now you're looking like you want to eat someone alive. All I did was insult Snape a little. Traitor."
Both Harry and Ron had noticed that Hermione had been acting strange lately.
Especially around Valentine's Day.
They had all believed Snape was the black-robed figure. Even Hermione's earlier deductions had pointed in that direction.
Yet for some reason, she had suddenly begun defending Snape.
She refused to explain why, growing increasingly secretive.
Aside from that, she was still the same know-it-all Hermione—particularly when it came to homework.
Ron dared not speak. Harry didn't escape either.
Before he could properly celebrate mastering Occlumency, Hermione dragged him straight to the library after breakfast.
Already taller than Harry by a head, Hermione slammed a towering stack of books onto the table, then pulled out her notebook under their horrified gazes.
"Since Harry has mastered Occlumency," she declared sternly, "from now on, you're both reviewing with me."
Ron felt as if he were staring at Professor McGonagall incarnate.
"Review?" He gaped at the books. "Are you mad? It's only February—"
"Late February," Hermione corrected sharply. "March is practically here. There are only thirteen weeks left until finals. June is exam month. Were you planning to start revising then?"
Hands on her hips, framed by the towering books, she looked impossibly imposing.
Even Harry couldn't help protesting,
"Hermione, you can't just swap time units to make it sound scarier. We've still got over three months."
"Have you considered Nicolas Flamel?" Hermione shot back. "He lived over six hundred years. To him, three months is the blink of an eye—"
"We're not Flamel," Ron interrupted. "And we won't live six hundred years."
"That's why we need to treasure time—"
As always, Hermione's logic overwhelmed them.
By the time they snapped out of it, they were already seated in the library, Madam Pince looming nearby with her feather duster, eyes blazing with menace.
No one dared make a sound.
Harry and Ron resigned themselves to studying.
That afternoon, Ron finally asked the question that had been bothering him.
"Hermione, you already know everything. You could recite these books in your sleep. Do these revision plans actually help you?"
Hermione sneered.
"Ronald, if you were as smart as your brothers, you'd never say something so arrogant. Even Dumbledore wouldn't dare claim he knows everything!"
Ron flushed—not with shame, but indignation.
He felt Hermione was becoming more and more like Vaughn—sharp-tongued, cutting, and merciless.
At lunchtime, while taking a break in the courtyard, he vented to Harry.
"That silly girl thinks she's clever. Don't tell me she's not trying so hard because Vaughn's a genius and she feels pressured—just like those girls back in Ottery St Catchpole, killing themselves over Potions just to talk to him. Ridiculous!"
"Harry, never change yourself just to attract someone. People like that are idiots."
Unfortunately, Harry had just run into Cho Chang at lunch and failed to say a word.
His face went bright red.
Ron kept rambling.
"Muggles call people like that 'simps'—I don't know exactly what it means, but it's obviously not flattering… Harry, why are you looking at me like that?"
Understanding the term far better than Ron realized, Harry asked stiffly,
"You sound very experienced. Was there a girl you liked once who preferred hanging out with Vaughn?"
Ron: "..."
The friendship nearly capsized.
Fortunately, at their age, minor awkwardness never lasted long.
They made up the next day.
Partly because neither took it seriously—
And partly because the "revision" madness spread beyond Hermione.
The professors had apparently decided it was time to apply pressure.
Hogwarts did not provide compulsory education.
To advance from first year to second, students had to pass their exams. Failures repeated the year.
From the 21st onward, assignments flooded in from every subject—covering the entire year's material, along with piles of essays.
Buried under homework, Harry and Ron quickly set aside their differences and banded together.
"Merlin, when will this end?" Ron groaned in the library, collapsing onto the desk after barely half a day.
Opposite him, Harry was drenched in sweat, frantically flipping pages of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi.
He was searching for Dittany.
Despite the title, the book was actually a Potions textbook.
That afternoon, Snape had mocked him mercilessly, insisting Harry had no idea what Dittany was used for—claiming his overcrowded skull could barely hold what little knowledge it already contained.
So Harry had sworn that even if it killed him, he would find the answer.
Since learning Occlumency, Snape's temper had only worsened, and his treatment of Harry had grown even harsher.
Harry refused to lose to someone like that.
As Harry studied obsessively and Hermione scribbled in her notebook, Ron stared out the window.
The sky was still heavy with rain, leaden clouds hanging low.
Since spring began, the Scottish Highlands seemed intent on drowning the surrounding seas.
Ron realized something—
Since spring arrived, he hadn't seen Hagrid without his thick mackintosh.
"Wait—Hagrid?" Ron suddenly exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
Behind a row of bookshelves by the window stood Hagrid—at least eleven feet tall—trying very hard to hide.
Ron immediately remembered where he was and clapped a hand over his mouth.
Too late.
Madam Pince stormed over, eyes blazing.
Moments later, Ron, Harry, Hermione—and Hagrid—were all kicked out of the library.
"I can't believe what goes on in that head of yours, Ronald Weasley!" Hermione exploded, furious at being interrupted mid-revision.
Harry, on the other hand, felt oddly relieved.
He was at his limit anyway—and he was genuinely curious why Hagrid had come to the library.
Stereotypes aside, Harry couldn't imagine Hagrid quietly reading unless it involved magical creatures.
"Hagrid," Harry asked carefully, "why were you in the library? And… are you hiding something behind your back?"
Hagrid stammered, hands clasped behind him.
"I—I was lookin' fer books on… agriculture. Yeh know—growin' pumpkins. Big, sweet ones. Or ones that taste like fried cod or chips…"
He trailed off into nonsense, then hurried them along.
"Best get back an' apologize to Madam Pince. Heard yeh've got loads o' homework. Oh—and yeh ain't been pokin' around about the Philosopher's Stone again, have yeh?"
That got Harry's attention immediately.
"We already figured it out," he said cautiously. "Snape's the one trying to steal the Stone. Hagrid, you—"
"Impossible!" Hagrid shook his head vigorously. He glanced around, lowered his voice, and said, "This ain't the place. Come by me hut tonight. I'll tell yeh why."
With that, he hugged the books he'd been hiding to his chest, said goodbye, and disappeared into the rain.
Ron scoffed.
"Those definitely weren't farming books. Why hide pumpkin-growing manuals? Unless he's breeding pumpkins that eat people."
Harry agreed—but he was thrilled.
Hagrid, who usually clammed up whenever they asked about the Stone, was finally willing to talk.
That alone made the night something to look forward to.
Just then, Hermione—who had quietly slipped away—returned holding a slip of parchment.
She slapped it down in front of them.
"Hagrid was looking for books on dragons," she sniffed. "'A Dragon Keeper's Guide, Dragons of the World, How to Hatch Eggs.'"
Harry immediately lost interest.
"That's not strange. Hagrid's always wanted a dragon. He told me the first time we met."
"But it is strange," Hermione insisted. "Everyone at Hogwarts knows Hagrid loves dragons."
Ron's eyes lit up.
"That's right! It's no secret. If someone showed interest in dragons, Hagrid would talk their ear off all day—not skulk around like that."
Harry blinked.
"You mean—"
"Exactly," Ron said excitedly. "Liking dragons isn't illegal. There's no reason to sneak about—unless Hagrid already has one. A live dragon. Or maybe… a dragon egg!"
Hermione poured cold water on his excitement immediately.
"Ronald, private dragon ownership is punishable by Azkaban."
"…Oh."
Harry, less familiar with wizarding law, stared.
"Azkaban? Then Hagrid—"
Hermione shot him a look and glanced at the busy corridor.
"So could you two please find somewhere private before discussing this?"
They ultimately decided to revise in the Room of Requirement—there was no better place in all of Hogwarts to study and talk.
No boy could resist the idea of a real dragon.
On the way, Harry bombarded Ron with questions.
Even in the wizarding world, dragons were powerful, mysterious creatures.
Harry had never seen one at Hogwarts.
Ron explained eagerly, drawing on knowledge absorbed from his brother Charlie.
"All dragons are protected now. Not domesticated—protected. Ministries of Magic set aside preserves and hire professionals to manage wild populations. Mostly to stop poachers hunting them for dragon blood, heartstrings, and the like."
"Charlie works at the Romanian Dragon Reserve."
He continued confidently,
"There are still wild dragons. I heard there's a group not far from Hogwarts—in the Hebrides. Black dragons."
"They're one of Britain's two native species. The other's the Common Welsh Green."
The afternoon passed with Hermione buried in revision plans, Ron lecturing enthusiastically on dragons, and Harry once again wondering what he'd been doing with his life.
That evening, after a quick dinner, Hermione went back to her dormitory to fetch Guoguo Tea, planning to let the cat stretch its legs on the way to Hagrid's hut.
Ron protested loudly.
"Can't you think about my feelings? Scabbers is miserable—I've got him locked in a cage all day!"
"And Guoguo Tea isn't?" Hermione snapped. "There's a mouse right in front of it, and it never gets to eat!"
Ron stared, speechless.
At that moment, Guoguo Tea—who had been quietly following Hermione—suddenly lifted its nose and sniffed the air.
It let out a sharp meow and dashed down the corridor.
"Guoguo Tea!"
"This is your fault, Ronald! It's clever—you must've hurt its feelings!"
"Don't be ridiculous—it's a cat! It doesn't understand people!"
"Enough! Let's go find it—we still have to get to Hagrid's!"
They hurried after it.
But when they rounded the corner, Guoguo Tea hadn't run far.
The chubby cat was lying on its back, hugging a boy's foot and purring happily.
The boy turned at the sound of footsteps and smiled.
"Hi, Hermione. Harry. Oh—and my little brother, Ronald Weasley."
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