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Hogwarts mornings always arrived wrapped in cold mist rising from the Black Lake.
But for those who had lived through last night's inferno, the air this morning seemed permanently laced with the stubborn smell of charred wood and dying embers.
Yet the sun rose on schedule. Soaked, shaken people still had to face bread, pumpkin juice, and the ancient castle's unchanging routine.
In the Great Hall, knives and forks clinked against silver plates as usual. The enchanted ceiling mirrored a sullen, overcast sky. At the four long tables, hundreds of young witches and wizards gossiped about upcoming finals, a professor's latest cruelty, or nodding off in History of Magic.
Only one thing was unusual: Hermione Granger was absent from breakfast.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry stared at the empty seat beside him and muttered to Ron,
"Hermione didn't come."
His gaze swept the hall; unease made his pumpkin-juice goblet tremble. The terror of last night's fire still lingered, turning every small anomaly into a threat.
"Who knows?" Ron mumbled through a mouthful of half-chewed fried egg. He didn't even glance at the empty spot. "Maybe sleeping in, or she went to the library early. If I'd almost been barbecued last night, I'd sleep till noon."
"Eat more, Harry. You look like you spent the night wrestling Dementors."
"How can I eat?" Harry rubbed his messy hair in frustration, unconsciously tracing the lightning scar on his forehead. "Hagrid's place… the rules… and Professor Dumbledore's punishment! Night patrols in the Forbidden Forest! Why does he want us going in there? That's no place for first-years!"
"Dumbledore saved us," Ron said. "No point deductions. Didn't even tell McGonagall." He tore off a chunk of toast and swallowed it almost whole, shrugging carelessly. "So we act like nothing happened. No expulsion, no dungeon—that means no real crime. That's how adults handle messes, isn't it? As for the forest, we'll go. Follow Hagrid. Think of it as a walk. Look on the bright side."
Watching Ron—so carefree, so utterly unconcerned—Harry couldn't help thinking: if Hermione were here, she'd slam down her cutlery and shriek,
"This is outrageous!"
"A dragon! On the edge of the Forbidden Forest! That's a blatant violation of the 1709 Wizarding Convention ban! And Professor Dumbledore didn't just ignore it—he sanctioned you using those underground channels to smuggle it out!"
But since the house clash she hadn't said anything like that. She went to the library more often. Her smiles had grown forced.
Ron's next words pulled Harry back.
"I already sent the letter to Charlie," Ron whispered, leaning in so only Harry could hear. He glanced around to make sure no one was listening.
"When?" Harry asked, startled.
"This morning's owl post. Used our family code. Didn't mention 'dragon'—just said 'urgent Scottish scaly souvenir needs collection by trusted friends.' Charlie's mates in Romania—lots of them are unregistered. They work the gray edges. As long as there's money or excitement, they don't ask questions. Charlie replied fast. Latest by weekend midnight—they'll meet us on the Astronomy Tower roof."
Harry looked at Ron and felt a sudden rush of emotion.
To protect the people he cared about, they had crossed school rules. Crossed laws.
He nodded.
"Then we wait till midnight Saturday. We finish this on the Astronomy Tower."
…
As for last night's fire—
Dumbledore had given them a unified story:
"An accident."
The whole school seemed oblivious—yet everyone sensed something off.
Because this morning the air between houses remained charged and poisonous.
At the Slytherin table,
Theodore Nott sliced into a rare steak with a silver knife. As heir to an ancient pure-blood line, he was known for cold precision.
"If my nose hasn't been ruined by pumpkin juice," said sixth-year prefect Cassius Warrington in a low voice from across the way, "there's sulfur and scorched feathers on the wind. And last night Professor Snape—unprecedented—canceled all dungeon patrols."
"What are you implying, Cassius?" Nott didn't look up; he simply placed a piece of beef in his mouth and chewed slowly.
"Gryffindor did something unforgivable. Right on the forest edge." Warrington gave a cold laugh. "But this morning the ruby hourglass hasn't lost a single gem. The old madman's covering for his lion cubs again."
"If you already know it's favoritism, why whine like a child who didn't get sweets?" Nott set down his knife and fork. "If he's chosen to turn the page, it means he still needs those stupid lions prancing on stage."
At the opposite end of the hall, the Ravenclaw table.
"Flames consistent with dragonfire," Roger Davies concluded. Quidditch captain and academic prodigy, he spoke with quiet certainty.
"But those flames were stripped of the concept of burning."
"It was the Headmaster," Penelope whispered beside him.
"He acted personally. To cover up something that shouldn't exist here."
"Should we write to the Ministry's Department of Education?" Roger frowned. Ravenclaw's drive for truth and progress recoiled at concealment.
"And then what? Prove we're smarter than the greatest wizard alive—or prove we're tired of living?" Penelope drained her pumpkin juice. "Put away your adorable curiosity, Roger."
The Ravenclaws shared knowing, mutually suspicious glances—then lowered their heads and watched coldly.
By comparison, the storm's center—the Gryffindor table.
Most Gryffindors had no idea what happened at Hagrid's last night. But the collective territorial instinct of young lions had been triggered anyway.
"What's wrong with those snakes this morning?" Cormac McLaggen slammed his goblet down. He leaned across the table, glaring openly at Slytherin. "The way they're staring—you'd think we're escaped Azkaban prisoners!"
"Let them stare. Bunch of moldy cowards hiding in the dungeons." Angelina gave a cold snort.
In Gryffindor logic, proof wasn't needed. Hostility from Slytherin was reason enough to bare teeth. A near-blind group pride bound them together, turning ignorance into raw aggression.
"Anyone pulls a wand in the corridor, I'll give 'em a Densaugeo haircut," Lee Jordan boasted, gesturing wildly. Laughter erupted around him.
The Great Hall had been sliced cleanly in two.
Slytherin probing and venom.
Gryffindor crude, reflexive fury.
Ravenclaw calculated self-preservation.
Hufflepuff anxious whispers and watchful glances…
Every emotion wove together into an invisible, high-tension net—trapping these young witches and wizards. Each one braced, defending college honor, blood purity, or simple self-preservation.
Fighting people truly was endless fun.
No one asked about the fire's truth.
No one wondered why the magical sky overhead was slowly turning gray.
This was exactly the scene Dumbledore wanted.
At the staff table, the director cracked open a boiled egg with a small spoon. Through half-moon spectacles he surveyed the turbulent hall below.
Watching children ready to draw wands over glances and taunts,
he sighed softly, stirred honey into his tea, and continued sustaining the fragile illusion called Hogwarts beneath this rotting twilight.
…
In the Slytherin dungeons common room.
Draco Malfoy sat in a high-backed chair. He toyed with his wand, staring sightlessly at the leaping flames.
Crabbe and Goyle paced behind him, footsteps heavy. Pansy and Blaise Zabini sat nearby on a sofa, sensing their leader's unusual mood.
"Draco, you didn't even go looking for Potter's trouble today." Pansy tested the waters. "That's not like you."
Draco's wand spat sparks, nearly setting the sofa alight.
Go looking for Potter?
With what? Childish hexes? His father's name?
Last night Dumbledore's gaze returned to him:
"Fairness is the mercy the strong grant the weak…"
"Your father is frantically patching windows, forbidding anyone to open them…"
Everything the Malfoy family prided itself on—power, Ministry law, pure-blood glory—had, in the old man's mouth, become nothing more than paste holding together a crumbling school.
Draco felt humiliation like never before. Not childish resentment at losing a spat—but the shattering realization that his entire creed was just a minor, decorative chip on someone else's gaming table.
Since rules were dead—since Dumbledore could bend law to shield Potter—
"Blaise," Draco said suddenly.
"What?" Zabini looked puzzled.
"If I told you those three Gryffindor idiots are plotting to smuggle a real, living Norwegian Ridgeback out of Hogwarts—what would you do?"
The words landed like a bomb.
Around them, several Slytherins froze.
"Have you lost your mind, Draco? This is Hogwarts!" Goyle stammered.
"I'm not mad. The school is." Draco stood.
"Do you know what I hate most?"
He continued:
"I hate how they enjoy every privilege while pretending to be innocent. Dumbledore thinks he controls everything. He thinks he's buried it all. He thinks we're just pathetic puppets dancing on his stage, waiting quietly to die."
Draco swept his gaze over the childhood companions around him. Something new burned in his eyes—ambition and madness that frightened them.
Like a man who wanted to tear open the world's curtain.
"He doesn't care about rules anymore, does he? He thinks we're playing house?" Draco laughed.
"Then let's play something bigger.
Crabbe, Goyle—watch every path to the courtyard and around Hagrid's ruins. Blaise—I need you to use your mother's connections. Find out if any unidentified persons from Romania have entered recently. Pansy—ask your family contacts in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."
"Draco, what exactly are you planning?" Pansy's voice shook.
"I'm going to intercept," Draco said flatly. "Since Potter and Weasley want to be smugglers—since Dumbledore wants to be their protector—then I'll be the one who shatters the unspoken rules. I won't call Aurors. I won't call professors. I'll take that dragon myself—drop it in the Slytherin common room, or leave it on McGonagall's office doorstep!"
He would prove to Dumbledore that Draco Malfoy was no puppet dancing on a grave. If rules were rotten—he had no problem becoming a thug.
He would show the old man what happened when the illusion was ripped away completely.
…
At the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the burned-out oak hut was slowly reassembling.
Hagrid waved his pink umbrella; his enormous body moved through the wreckage. Reparo coaxed charred planks back together, but gaps still leaked wind.
In the shaky center of the rebuilt room sat a covered crate.
Inside came the restless flapping of wings and low, guttural hisses. Every so often black smoke curled from the seams.
"Quiet now, Norbert. Mummy's makin' you somethin' tasty." Hagrid wiped soot from his face, eyes red-rimmed.
Harry and Ron stood in the doorway, watching—emotions churning.
Hermione was still in the library. She hadn't come.
"It's growing too fast," Harry said worriedly. "That crate won't hold it for days. If we wait till the weekend…"
"We have to wait till the weekend!" Ron gritted out. "Charlie's people are already at the border. They need time to dodge Ministry patrols. If we move now and get spotted by a patrol or Aurors—it's over."
For the first time in their lives they faced a long, agonizing wait.