"What's wrong, Ron?"
Hermione bustled over, her arms overflowing with a precarious stack of first-year Defense Against the Dark Arts homework.
"Hermione," Ron began, his eyes wide with desperation. "Can I... 'borrow' your Transfiguration essay? There's no way I can finish mine tonight..."
"Really?" Hermione arched an eyebrow, her shadow falling across his parchment as she leaned in. "I thought you said you were halfway done." Her gaze dropped, and her nose wrinkled in a silent wave of revulsion. It wasn't an essay at all, but a grotesque mosaic of chewed chicken scraps suspended in a glistening puddle of saliva. The moisture had wicked into the parchment, blurring the few legible words into a dark, viscous smear.
"Ew—that's revolting, Ron!" she exclaimed, snatching her gaze away. She expertly balanced the stack of homework with one hand and drew her wand with the other.
"Scourgify!"
The cleaning charm worked wonders, instantly vanishing the crumbs and saliva. The dark, ugly ink stains, however, remained stubbornly embedded in the parchment. If Ron dared hand that in to the notoriously strict Professor McGonagall, he'd be lucky to escape with a month's detention.
"See, Hermione? It's ruined," Ron said, his voice laced with pathetic guilt. "It's so late, and if you don't lend me your essay, I'll never finish. And if I don't hand it in, Professor McGonagall will take points, and if Gryffindor loses points, our chances of winning the House Cup will shrink... So you see, your essay is absolutely crucial to the honor of our house!"
He finished his breathless, convoluted argument and looked up at her, utterly convinced by his own flawless logic.
"No!" Hermione slammed the thick stack of parchment onto the table with a resounding thump. She puffed out her chest, proudly displaying the gleaming demon-wing badge pinned to her robes. "I am a Teaching Assistant now. I must set an example for the other students. I cannot allow delinquents like you to exploit loopholes!"
Ron's face fell. "Harry, say something," he pleaded, turning to his friend, who had been watching the exchange with amusement. "Don't you think Hermione should lend us her homework, for the good of Gryffindor?"
"Actually, you don't need to borrow Hermione's," Harry said with a casual smile, tucking a small, black diary into his schoolbag. "I've already finished mine. You can 'borrow' it if you like, Ron."
"What?!" Ron shot to his feet, his exclamation so loud that the entire common room turned to stare. Harry quickly gave the room an apologetic look before yanking Ron back into his seat.
"What's the big deal?" Harry muttered. "Is it so strange that I finished my homework?"
"It's not right, mate," Ron whispered, his voice full of disbelief. "I skipped dinner to work on this essay, and I'm only halfway done. You went all the way down to the Great Hall and back. That's at least an hour! How could you possibly be finished?"
Harry's face darkened. "Do you want to see it or not?" he snapped.
"Of course I do! Only a fool wouldn't!" Ron snatched the parchment from Harry's hand. Ignoring his friend's glare, he began to copy, employing his usual "borrowing" techniques—changing the order of paragraphs, swapping a few words, and artfully rearranging sentences.
But after copying the first few lines, Ron stopped. A strange expression crossed his face.
"Harry... did you really write this yourself?" he asked, his eyes wide as he scanned the essay. "Are you sure you didn't copy this from Hermione? No... wait. I think this is even better than Hermione's."
"Yes... yes, I wrote it myself," Harry said, casting a quick, nervous glance at his schoolbag. He didn't tell them about the magical diary that could answer any question, solve any problem, and write a perfect Transfiguration essay in minutes.
Delegating the grading had solved one problem, but it wasn't long before another, more tedious one arose for Dracula: writing the final exams.
He was currently lounging in Dumbledore's office, listlessly tossing the Sorting Hat into the air and catching it, a picture of profound boredom. The hat, after a few dizzying howls, had fallen silent, resigned to its fate as a plaything.
"Professor Dracula, you have been lying there all afternoon," Dumbledore finally said, looking up from his desk. "In the time you have spent in a daze, your exam paper could have been written twice over."
Dracula had come to shirk his duties. The task of creating the exam was, in his opinion, beneath him. He would much rather be a spectator, enjoying the sight of students tearing their hair out in frustration.
"I would rather be in a daze than write questions," Dracula sighed, casually tossing the Sorting Hat back onto its stool. "You have to consider their progress, ensure a certain level of difficulty, differentiate between achievement levels... it's a dreadfully boring, complicated affair. Let Snape do it. He wants my job so badly, let him do the grunt work."
"Severus, as you know, only wants to teach the subject," Dumbledore replied patiently. "He will not write your exams for you. I suggest you refer to last year's papers for the format and base the questions on what you have taught this year."
"Why not just use last year's questions?" Dracula asked lazily.
"Because students have access to past papers," Dumbledore shrugged. "It would be unfair to those who have not seen them."
Dracula groaned and slammed his head back against the sofa's armrest. With a sharp crack, a spiderweb of fractures appeared in the solid gold.
"No," he declared, his voice filled with a newfound, dramatic resolve. "I must find another teaching assistant! I simply cannot function without one!"
(End of Chapter)
***
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