The quiet scratch of quills against parchment formed a steady, rhythmic backdrop to the morning.
Orion found the assignment incredibly straightforward. He read through the chapters on Advanced Untransfiguration with casual interest, easily digesting the complex magical mechanics. Thanks to the intense, continuous study sessions executed by his Reflection Clone, Orion was comfortably operating near an O.W.L. level of theoretical knowledge across most subjects.
He wrote detailed, articulate summaries, structuring his arguments flawlessly.
Over on his desk, Harry Potter was clearly having a more difficult time. He was chewing the end of his quill, scowling at the textbook, and crossing out sentences almost as quickly as he wrote them. Orion assumed he was managing to produce something legible, though whether it was accurate remained a mystery.
The only true disruption to the quiet atmosphere came from the corner near the window.
Nymphadora Tonks was emitting a continuous stream of low, frustrated noises. She sighed heavily, tapped her red quill aggressively against the desk, and occasionally let out a soft groan of profound despair.
After an hour, Professor McGonagall finally looked up from her own work, lowering her spectacles.
"Is there a problem, Nymphadora?" McGonagall asked, her tone a dangerous mix of polite inquiry and sharp warning.
Tonks hesitated, looking between the intimidating Deputy Headmistress and the massive pile of ungraded essays still looming before her. Then, her frustration boiled over.
"It's just... these students!" Tonks groaned, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "They're so... stupid!"
Harry looked up, slightly startled by the outburst. Orion didn't pause his writing, though a faint smile touched his lips.
"I mean, look at this!" Tonks grabbed a piece of parchment, waving it wildly. "Several of these fourth-year girls are writing absolute nonsense, as if they haven't even cracked the textbook open! This one here... she spent the first paragraph trying to explain Vanishing Spells, and then just inexplicably transitioned into writing down the lyrics from the Weird Sisters' latest release!"
McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a heavy sigh.
"And then there are the second-years!" Tonks continued, grabbing a different, much shorter essay. "Look at this one! The first half is actually brilliant. She wrote a perfectly accurate theory regarding the molecular mechanics of color-changing charms."
Tonks's hair shifted from brown to a stressed, muddy yellow.
"But then... halfway down the page, she just stops talking about magic entirely! She suddenly starts writing a philosophical paragraph about how the color blue 'feels sad sometimes', and how she personally does not like it when the sky is angry. How the bloody hell am I supposed to grade this?!"
Orion paused mid-sentence, a single drop of ink falling from his quill.
Ah, Orion thought, suppressing a chuckle. I know exactly whose essay that is. Never change, Luna.
Professor McGonagall let out another, deeper sigh. It was the sound of a woman who had endured decades of student-induced trauma.
"Yes, Nymphadora," McGonagall said wearily. "Now you have a small glimpse into what I, and the rest of the faculty, have to deal with on a daily basis. The academic brilliance of the few, buried beneath the staggering, creative incompetence of the many."
She leveled a harsh, unforgiving glare across the room, ensuring her gaze swept over both Harry and Orion.
"And look at you all," McGonagall added bitterly. "Piling your childish pranks, your rivalries, and your chaotic disruptions on top of my already insurmountable duties, acting as if I simply have an abundance of free time to manage your entertainment."
Harry had the decency to look ashamed, ducking his head back down to his essay. Orion merely offered a polite, apologetic nod, acknowledging the point without actually feeling guilty.
"Grade the portion of the essay that is factually correct, Nymphadora," McGonagall instructed tiredly, turning back to her own parchment. "And simply ignore the parts that are irrelevant or musical in nature. That is the only way to survive the process."
Tonks grumbled something unintelligible, dipping her red quill back into the inkwell with a vicious stab.
They worked in relative silence until the large grandfather clock in the corner chimed the noon hour.
"Very well," McGonagall announced, setting her quill down and stretching her stiff shoulders. "That is sufficient for the morning. We shall take a break for lunch. I have instructed the kitchen elves to deliver our meal directly here, rather than returning to the Great Hall."
She stood up and moved toward the small, round table situated near Tonks's workspace. With a quick wave of her wand, she moved the stack of papers off the table and then conjured two extra, sturdy wooden chairs.
"Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy. Join us, please."
They gathered around the table just as a tray laden with sandwiches, pumpkin juice, and small tarts appeared with a soft pop.
As they ate, the atmosphere relaxed slightly. McGonagall seemed to leave her disciplinary persona at her desk, transitioning into a more conversational, albeit still serious, mode.
"Tell me, Nymphadora," McGonagall asked, taking a sip of her juice. "Is there any update from the Ministry regarding the fugitives? Have any of the Death Eaters from the recent breakout been apprehended?"
She sighed, looking incredibly weary. "I have been so consumed with the curriculum adjustments and the security protocols here at the school recently, I haven't even had the time to properly read the Daily Prophet the last two weeks."
Tonks shook her head, her expression turning professional and grim.
"No, Professor," Tonks reported, finishing a sandwich. "We have absolutely nothing. The Auror corps is scouring the entire countryside, following up on every tip, but they are ghosts. They know how to hide."
Tonks paused, leaning forward slightly, lowering her voice as if sharing classified intelligence.
"There was only one confirmed sighting. Augustus Rookwood."
Orion paused mid-chew, his ears perking up at the name of the notoriously dangerous former Unspeakable.
"He was spotted three days ago," Tonks continued. "In a shady, high-alley tavern located in one of the border villages up north. But the Aurors didn't catch him."
"He escaped?" McGonagall frowned.
"Yes, but not because he saw us coming," Tonks explained, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Apparently, someone else spotted him in the tavern first... and immediately attacked him."
Harry stopped eating, looking intrigued. "Another Auror?"
"No," Tonks shook her head. "A civilian, as far as we know. By the time the rapid-response Auror team arrived at the coordinates, the fight was already over, and both Rookwood and the attacker had fled the scene."
Tonks whistled lowly, impressed.
"We don't know who it was that attacked him. According to the terrified witnesses in the tavern, the attacker had a heavily charmed hood up the entire time, obscuring their face and magical signature."
She looked around the table, her eyes wide.
"But whoever it was... they were definitely not holding back. Mad-Eye Moody reviewed the crime scene himself. He said Rookwood was one of the most dangerous, lethal duelists under You-Know-Who's regime. But judging by the sheer, devastating destruction left behind in that tavern..."
Tonks took a slow sip of her juice.
"...Mad-Eye reckons the attacker must have some kind of deep, incredibly violent personal enmity towards Rookwood. Because they practically tore the building down trying to kill him."