In the morning, when the Great Hall of Hogwarts was already loud and boisterous around the house tables, the sun still hadn't shown its face.
In winter the sun always rises late; the pitch‑black night was like a heavy velvet curtain still draped over the castle, with a few lonely stars blinking, as if trying to hold on to the last bit of scenery before dawn.
But warm, dim yellow light was already glowing from the windows all over the castle, hot steam spreading together with the smell of toast, and one could vaguely make out figures passing back and forth in front of the panes.
The ceiling of the Great Hall had been turned by Magic into a clear winter night sky, with gentle starlight twinkling above and setting off the holly and Mistletoe garlands hanging on the walls.
The four house tables were already packed with students—more so even than during regular classes; no one was complaining about having to get up early. Laughter and chatter filled the air, interwoven with the soft clink of knives and forks against china plates.
Colorful crackers went off now and then in some corner, showering sparkling confetti, or popping out a ridiculously shaped hat that drew a small cheer.
Some people were turning Illusion Gummies into animals, which hopped up onto the table and did wiggly little dances, making everyone burst into loud laughter.
This was the last morning the students would spend at Hogwarts this year. After breakfast, everyone would be getting on the train home.
Because of that, the professors were watching the scene with lenience, neither scolding nor docking points for the students' mischief. Even Snape only sat there with a scowl, staring fixedly at the bacon on his plate so he wouldn't have to see anything, enduring in silence.
"…And then Professor Trelawney lifted her head from that heap of tea leaves and gasped in horror—'My dear, I see it, a black light! A sinister black light is hanging over you!'"
Michael leaned forward, his elbow propped beside the jug of pumpkin juice, a long biscuit twirling nimbly between his fingers.
He mimicked Professor Trelawney's air of spooky mystery and sheer panic to perfection, immediately capturing the attention of the nearby students.
"And then?" Cho Chang, across the table, couldn't help but ask.
"Terry went white as a sheet; he spent the entire lesson flipping through books, looking up what 'black light' meant. But if he'd just lifted his head and taken a proper look, he'd have seen the truth…"
Michael deliberately paused for a few seconds, took a sip of pumpkin juice, and only then drawled, under the glare from Terry Boot:
"That black light… was actually because, when Professor Trelawney nodded off, the kerosene lamp had smoked her glasses black…"
"Hahahahaha…"
The students around them doubled over laughing, all except Terry Boot, who glared furiously at Michael and demanded:
"You figured it out and still never told me the truth? I thought I'd caught some terminal illness and even went to the hospital wing to see Madam Pomfrey!"
This time, the people who'd managed not to laugh earlier snorted aloud; their whole bodies shook, tears springing into their eyes. Not far away, Luna practically slid off her chair.
Michael raised his eyebrows triumphantly and turned to share the joke with Vid—only to see that his friend's face held no trace of amusement, just a deep, heavy gloom that clashed starkly with the cheerful atmosphere around them.
"Hey!" Michael nudged Vid with his elbow, lowering his voice. "We're going home soon—why do you look like you're in an even worse mood than a couple of days ago?"
At that, Michael suddenly grew alert. "Don't tell me something else has happened?"
Vid's gaze seemed to return from somewhere far away. He looked at the potatoes he'd stabbed into a mess on his plate, then pushed it aside. After a few seconds of silence, he didn't mention what he'd just been thinking about; he only said quietly:
"I got word… Professor Abigail has died."
"What?!"
Michael's smile froze on his face. His voice shot up without him meaning to, drawing the attention of several nearby classmates.
He immediately lowered his tone and asked in shock, "You mean Professor Abigail? Professor Serra Abigail? Are you sure? Could it be… someone got it wrong?"
Although the Defense Against the Dark Arts post had changed hands again and again—six different professors in under five years—apart from the first two rather unreliable ones, the later professors had all been quite beloved.
Among them, Serra Abigail, as the only woman, was very beautiful, had a very distinctive teaching style, and after the stammering Quirrell and the dazzling‑smile Lockhart, she'd been the first Defense Against the Dark Arts professor they'd had who was actually competent—and she had even protected them on the train…
In short, even if students often "got beaten up" in her class, once she'd left, everyone missed her terribly.
Michael, of course, was no exception.
So when Vid confirmed the news, he just sat there, stunned.
"How… how did it happen?" Michael said in disbelief. "She was so strong, and so young… How… how did it come to this?"
Vid met his friend's shocked eyes, considered for a moment, then said slowly, "I heard… she chose to sacrifice herself in order to fight against Dark Wizards."
Michael opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Shock, admiration, and a dull, aching sadness all tangled together, forming something like a massive lump in his chest that made his nose sting; he very nearly burst into tears.
"Merlin…" Michael finally murmured, his shoulders slumping. "That… that really does sound like something she'd do…"
"Vid, got any plans for the holidays?" Terry Boot poked his head over from a few seats away and asked, "Oh, right, that Little People Country adventure game—can you get us priority slots or something? Feels like every Wizard in the world is squeezing into London over the holidays; just waiting for a queue number is torture!"
"Terry!" Michael cut him off, his expression unusually grave. He shook his head and said quietly, "Knock it off. Vid's… not in a good mood right now."
"Not in a good mood?" Terry blinked, raising his eyebrows in surprise as he looked at Michael. "What's wrong with you now? You were just making fun of me, and now you look like you've lost a whole sack of Galleons."
Michael's face darkened; he said softly, "Professor Abigail, she…"
The news spread out quietly like ripples on water.
Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Slytherin, Gryffindor…
The laughter that had been rising and falling along the house tables, like waves rolling across a field of ripe golden wheat, suddenly felt as though an invisible northern wind had swept over it. Wave after wave of mirth bowed, fell still, and at last was neatly and completely cut off.
Some people lowered their copies of the Prophet Daily, some let their silver forks slip from their fingers, and a few more sentimental girls couldn't help letting out a stifled sob.