Before Harry and Ron could dig into the so-called "truth" they were chasing, a much more immediate problem landed right in front of them.
—Final exams!
Even though rumors about the Slytherin heir and the monster had been swirling around Hogwarts for ages, that didn't mean the exams were canceled. It seemed that no matter how perilous the journey got, the rickety bridge of exams still had to be crossed—unless, of course, they got attacked like Hermione. Only then might the school consider waiving their exams for the year.
The real kicker? Since Hermione had been taken out early this time, Harry and Ron had spent all their time messing around with this and that. They'd fallen way behind on the year's coursework. Hermione didn't even need to study—she wasn't taking the exams anyway. But Harry and Ron? Even though they wanted to follow a neat little study plan like last year, they couldn't pull it off. The person who usually made those plans for them was still lying in the hospital wing.
So, with finals looming, Harry and Ron had no choice but to join the crowd cramming in the library. At least it *felt* like a studying vibe, right?
Dylan, as usual, showed up at the library to read. He'd barely sat down when Harry and Ron sidled over, looking all sneaky.
Dylan glanced at them. "Hey, Dylan…" Ron started, but Dylan already knew where this was going. He shook his head with a small sigh. "You know I don't need to study, so if you're about to ask me how to prep, I'm sorry, but I don't have a plan to share."
Ron's face crumpled instantly. "Oh man, there's just *so much* to go over! Without a solid plan, I don't even know where to start!"
Harry pursed his lips beside him—Ron had basically voiced his exact thoughts.
Dylan flipped open his copy of *Advanced Runes Translation*. He'd picked Ancient Runes as an elective for his third year. Sure, he already knew a decent amount about runes and had read plenty of books on them, but with the course coming up, he figured a refresher wouldn't hurt. Besides, runes carried a deep, mysterious magical weight. They'd been around forever, and some might even hold seriously powerful magic. That kind of thing fascinated Dylan, and he'd always kept up his studies on Ancient Runes.
Hearing Ron's whining, Dylan offered a casual tip. "Here's the thing—every subject? Just focus on doing the homework the professors assigned. Those assignments pretty much cover everything you've learned. They're your perfect study guide."
He opened his book to the page he'd left off on and glanced up at Ron. "Instead of relying on everyone else to feel motivated, try going solo. Especially since… well, failing a subject could get pretty ugly."
Dylan couldn't help but think of the letter Ron had gotten from home a couple of days ago at breakfast. Mrs. Weasley still hadn't forgotten what he'd done at the start of the year. She'd flat-out ordered him: fail even *one* subject, and he'd be coming home to a sore backside. Ron was terrified, which was why he'd stopped running off with Harry to mess around lately and had instead planted himself on a library bench.
Ron let out a groan but finally seemed to latch onto a goal. He pulled out the homework Professor Flitwick had assigned, determined to slog through the key points of this year's Charms lessons bit by bit. Two minutes in, though, his eyes were already glazing over.
"Dylan, how do you manage to do so many cool tricks with magic?" he asked.
Dylan raised an eyebrow, thought for a second, and gave a little smile. "If you box magic into rigid rules, doesn't life get kinda boring?"
Ron blinked, confused. Magic was just… magic. What was this "boxing it in" stuff? He smacked his lips and switched topics. "I can't even imagine what the professors are thinking. The headmaster's been kicked out, the Quidditch final's canceled, the Slytherin heir and that snake monster that got Hermione are still out there somewhere, and Professor McGonagall *still* won't just give us a break!"
"Isn't she worried the monster might pop up during exams and take us all out in one go?" Ron pressed his homework flat on the table, barely glancing at it while his mouth ran a mile a minute. "And that's not even the worst part!"
He yanked out his wand—a beat-up thing held together with layers of Spellotape. "Can you believe this? I've got to use *this* piece of junk for exams! I'm terrified it's gonna blow up in my face again! What if I end up stealing Seamus's thunder? An explosion's bad enough, but during an exam? My grades would be toast!"
Ron's face was the picture of misery. "I *really* don't wanna go home and get walloped!"
"Then ace the written part," Dylan said with a shrug. He felt bad for Ron, but that was about it. He wasn't Doraemon—he couldn't just whip out some magic memory bread for the guy.
Harry, though, totally got where Ron was coming from. He ruffled his hair in frustration. "What have we even *learned* this year? I feel like I don't remember a thing…"
Neville had come to the library with Dylan. Between the pressure of finals and worrying about the Chamber of Secrets, his round little face looked downright haggard. Still, unlike Ron and Harry, he could at least count on a decent grade in Herbology. Sure, Professor Sprout hadn't asked him to help with the plants lately, but before Dumbledore left Hogwarts, Neville had spent plenty of time with her in the greenhouses. All that time soaking it in had made him a pro at this year's Herbology exam material. Other subjects, though? Not a total disaster, but definitely a struggle.
Before the finals hit, though, some good news arrived early.
"The mandrakes are fully mature?" Ron blurted excitedly over lunch, turning to Neville.
Neville nodded gently. "Yeah, Professor Sprout's getting ready to harvest them all."
"Awesome! With the mandrakes, the restorative potion'll be ready soon, right?" Harry chimed in, perking up.
"Should be," Neville said, spooning some hot soup. "I just know the mandrakes are ready. Professor Sprout even asked me to help out, but I don't know when the potion'll be done."
"Either way, that's a win!" Ron looked genuinely pumped.
Neville glanced at Dylan. "Hey, Dylan, could you come help tomorrow? With you there, I bet we'd get through the mandrakes way faster."
"Sure, no problem," Dylan agreed easily.
The next morning, after breakfast with Neville, Dylan headed to the greenhouse. Professor Sprout was already up—way too early, probably because she was so thrilled about the mandrakes maturing. Dylan could even see the dark circles under her eyes.
"You're here! Such good kids—thanks for helping out. With you two, I bet Professor Snape can whip up the restorative potion by tonight," she said, handing Neville and Dylan each a pair of gloves and earplugs before bustling off to the other side of the greenhouse to start working.
The air in the greenhouse was damp and thick with that earthy plant smell. Dylan stood in front of a mandrake pot, loosened the soil a bit, and yanked it out. Right before its scream could erupt, the mandrake caught sight of who was holding it—and froze. It seemed to *remember* him. Its ugly little eyes locked onto Dylan, and it trembled, swallowing its cry.
Dylan quirked an eyebrow. "I've never even cast a spell on these guys. Are they really *that* scared of me?"
*Swish!* Neville sliced off the mandrake's leafy top with a quick swing of his sickle. He was a natural at this.
Dylan didn't take the leaves. Useful or not, they belonged to Hogwarts—he wasn't about to pocket them with Professor Sprout right there. Once its top was cut, the mandrake's root went limp, looking even uglier than before as its wrinkled skin sagged. From sprout to harvest, mandrakes never had a single good-looking moment—just a cycle of ugly, uglier, and downright hideous.
The greenhouse was packed with mandrakes, and Dylan couldn't help but grumble inwardly. With only a handful of people attacked at Hogwarts, they could've just bought a few mature mandrakes from outside and had Snape brew the potion ages ago. Waiting for these to ripen and harvesting them one by one? It made no sense.
Still, he and Neville worked like a well-oiled machine—one pulling, one cutting. They cleared most of the mandrakes in no time, even outpacing Professor Sprout. Dylan left a few untouched on purpose, and once Sprout finished her share, the three of them met in the middle of the greenhouse.
Dylan waved her over and pulled off his earplugs. "Hm? What's up, kid?" Sprout asked, pausing mid-pull. With her earplugs still in, she couldn't keep going either.
Once she took hers off, Dylan blinked innocently and, to Neville's shock, made his pitch. "Professor, I can brew the mandrake restorative potion too. You know the first person who got attacked was saved with *my* potion."
"I remember that. So?" she replied.
"So, I was wondering if I could have the rest of these mandrakes. I could brew potions for everyone, and I need some for my other potion research too."
Neville's jaw dropped. *Dylan, you're not even pretending anymore! You asked me to help you snag one before, and now you're just straight-up asking the professor?*
"Oh, that's no trouble at all," Sprout said with a hearty laugh, brushing dirt off her hands. "These mandrakes were going to be stored as school supplies anyway. You're welcome to take some."
To Neville's surprise, she didn't get mad—she just agreed, no fuss.
"Really? That's awesome! Thanks, Professor—you've saved me big time!" Dylan beamed.
Neville craned his neck, looking from Dylan to Sprout, totally baffled. Hadn't she said before that greenhouse supplies were Hogwarts property and even *she* couldn't just give them away? Last time, he'd only gotten a mandrake for Dylan because he'd helped out so much. How'd Dylan just waltz in and score the rest? He glanced at the table—nine whole mandrakes! Even with Dylan pitching in, giving away nearly a tenth of the greenhouse stock seemed wild. Was Dylan secretly tighter with Sprout than he was?
"Relax, Neville," Sprout said warmly. "It's just some mandrakes—not a big deal. Dylan's got real talent, and I'm happy to help a promising young wizard grow."
Neville: *(._.)*
*Great, I've been replaced!*
She glanced at him and added, "Just like I'm glad to have you help me, Neville. You've got a real gift for Herbology, and I love teaching you more."
Neville's face flushed red despite his sulking. "And since you've helped so much, Dylan, go ahead and take them," she continued.
"Sweet! I'll bring the harvested ones to Professor Snape then," Dylan said cheerfully.
"Good idea. Set aside a bunch for him—he can brew extra potions so the kids won't be so scared," Sprout nodded.
Dylan waved his wand, levitating the mandrake pots around him. After saying goodbye to Sprout, he left the greenhouse with nine living mandrakes and the harvested ones, Neville trailing behind.
"Uh, Dylan," Neville said, fidgeting. "The mandrakes are mature now, so I'm not needed anymore, right? You can take them to Snape—I'll sit this one out."
Dylan nodded, not minding. With so many mandrakes, he could plant them in his suitcase. Once they flowered and fruited, they'd grow more. Plus, since they were mature, they'd start splitting naturally. Stick them in a forest, and they'd multiply on their own—no effort required.
Neville hurried off to the dorms while Dylan strolled toward Snape's office, in no rush. Halfway there, he sensed something—a faint presence. Narrowing his eyes, he flicked his wand, and a rooster's crow rang out. The presence flinched and vanished.
"Patience, little guy," Dylan muttered with a smirk. "You'll be free to grow in my forest soon enough."
He reached Snape's office, nine mandrake pots still floating beside him, and knocked. "Come in," came the curt reply.
Inside, Snape was hunched over a cauldron, his long fingers methodically adding ingredients. Hearing Dylan, he looked up, eyeing the hovering mandrakes like they were some bizarre art installation. "What, are you turning yourself into a stinking garden?" he drawled.
Dylan chuckled. "Nah, Professor, I just don't have anywhere to stash them yet." He set the harvested mandrakes on the table and noticed two cauldrons already simmering. "What's this?"
Snape went back to his ingredients. "Since you're here, don't leave. That's your cauldron—help me brew the restorative potion." His tone left no room for argument as he stepped aside, grabbed some mandrakes, and moved to the other cauldron.
Dylan: *…*
*Well, guess I'm staying!*
He sighed. He'd wanted to read more and had a tutoring session with McGonagall later, but with Snape barking orders, he wouldn't say no. It'd been a while since they'd brewed together, anyway.
"So, Professor, what's your take on this Chamber business?" Dylan asked, tossing mandrake roots into his cauldron. "Harry says you've been shooing him back to the dorms every time you catch him lately." He figured he might pry some insight into Dumbledore's thoughts on him through Snape.
Snape's hand faltered, and a big bubble popped in his cauldron. He quickly stirred it, letting out a low, "Hmph. Watch your spit doesn't ruin the potion—we don't have spare magic apples for your experiments."
Dylan grinned. "Relax, Professor, you know my skills. I won't mess this up." His movements were steady as the potion took shape.
"Hmph!" Snape grunted again, falling silent.
Dylan shrugged but didn't push. Snape's feelings about Harry were obvious—not *that* kind, but the other kind. Grumpy as he was, Dylan knew Snape would never let Harry get hurt. Why else did Harry always run into him when he was off on his own—and then grumble to Dylan and Ron about spotting Snape *again*? Total tsundere vibes.
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After a quiet moment, Snape spoke up, his face cold. "A half-baked kid like you shouldn't be poking around the Restricted Section so much. Those books aren't for you to dive into yet."
Dylan blinked. He'd never assumed he could hide his Restricted Section visits from the professors. Madam Pince logged every book he checked out—they could look it up anytime. He'd never bothered hiding it. Sure, some were about dark magic, but nothing too sinister. Maybe that's why no one had called him out on it all year—they'd just let him keep going. So why was Snape bringing it up now?
Then he remembered what Harry had said. Was this Dumbledore's doing—some pre-departure instruction? Keeping his face neutral, Dylan replied, "I get your concern, Professor, but I promise I won't let dark forces sway me. Honestly, the dark magic in those books seems pretty dumb to me. I'm just studying the principles—not trying to master it."
Snape shot him a look, searching for any hint of a lie. All he got was sincerity. "Your Occlumency's coming along nicely," he muttered.
Dylan grinned. "Thanks to you, Professor."
"Dumbledore wants me to keep an eye on you next year," Snape said. "I'll need to know what dark magic you've been messing with."
Dylan perked up. "Wait, are you gonna teach me dark magic?"
"First, I'll see how much you've figured out," Snape replied coolly.
Dylan couldn't hide his excitement. He'd been tinkering with dark magic on his own—since no one had stopped him, he hadn't exactly flaunted it either. Now Snape was offering to teach him? Talk about a bonus. Next year was gonna be busy.
"Be careful lately," Snape added, staring at his cauldron. "If you run into trouble, use every spell you've got—no hesitation."
"Got it, Professor," Dylan said with a laugh. Snape's attitude hinted at Dumbledore's stance too. Looked like the old man still saw him as just a student. Those warnings to Harry? Probably because Dumbledore noticed his Restricted Section trips and figured he'd picked up some dark knowledge. Nothing deeper than that. Good—Dumbledore hadn't caught on to anything big.
They brewed a few vials together, and Dylan checked the time. "Professor, I've gotta head to McGonagall's soon."
"Go," Snape said without looking up. "Take two vials with you."
Dylan's eyes lit up. "Thanks, Professor!"
"Out!"
"Yes, sir! Don't forget to eat!" Dylan called as he left. He grabbed dinner in the Great Hall, then headed to McGonagall's office.
He'd barely started chatting with her about Transfiguration—something they hadn't done since Dumbledore got booted—when a letter zoomed in, all frantic-like. McGonagall opened it, scanned it, and her eyes widened.
"A real murder at Hogwarts?" she snapped, furious. "Who's spreading this nonsense at a time like this?!"
Dylan raised an eyebrow. It wasn't often he got to talk Transfiguration with her these days, and now this letter had crashed the party. Seeing her glare at it, he asked, "Professor?"
She rubbed her forehead. "It's Flitwick. He says some reporter's out there claiming Hogwarts has had a real murder—that a student's actually dead!"
"But that's ridiculous! There hasn't been an attack in forever!"
Dylan's mind jumped straight to Lockhart's smug face. "Can I see it?"
McGonagall handed him the letter. It was short: Flitwick confirming some outsider was hyping up a supposed "real murder" at Hogwarts, predicting a student's death.
Dylan rubbed his chin. "No way this came from a student."
McGonagall looked at him. "You think…?"
He nodded. "Sounds like someone's stirring the pot—either to get famous again or because they're on someone's payroll."
Her brows furrowed. "You're pointing at Lockhart?"
Dylan smirked. "Who else at this school would pull something like this?"
McGonagall slammed the desk. Dylan winced. "Careful, Professor—don't hurt your hand."
"That Lockhart! What does he gain by smearing the school like this?"
"Oh, plenty," Dylan said. "Whether someone's paying him or he's just riding Hogwarts' coattails to fame, it's all profit for him."
She couldn't argue with that. "But every attacked student's in the hospital wing! Your mandrake potion even saved one of them! There's no murder—he's just making up lies. What kind of reputation can he build on that?"
Dylan paused. "Unless he's planning to *make* it true."
"What?!" McGonagall gasped. "He wouldn't dare!"
(Chapter End)