Chapter 146: A Woman's Transformation
The Great Hall buzzed with its usual dinner-time energy, but the topic on everyone's lips was the same: Fred and George Weasley. Their explosive departure had become legend overnight, and everywhere students gathered, they replayed the details—the dragons, the rockets, the final triumphant W blooming against the twilight sky.
At the Gryffindor table, Ron poked morosely at his pudding, his expression a mixture of pride and grievance. "Mum sent me a Howler. A Howler. In front of everyone. She screamed so loud the owls in the owlery probably heard it."
Harry choked on his pumpkin juice, trying not to laugh. "What did it say?"
Ron's face reddened. "She said—" He lowered his voice to a passable imitation of Mrs. Weasley's furious tone. " 'Ronald Weasley! You'd better be behaving yourself at Hogwarts! If I hear you've been breaking rules, or sneaking about with Fred and George, you needn't bother coming home!' "
Ginny snorted, nearly spraying her dinner across the table. "She didn't!"
"She did!" Ron gestured wildly with his fork. "And the worst part is, I didn't even do anything! It's not fair! Why do I get in trouble for what they did?"
"Because you're the one still here," Harry pointed out, grinning. "And because Mrs. Weasley knows Fred and George are beyond her reach now, so she has to take it out on someone."
"That's terrible logic."
"It's mother logic," Ginny said sagely. "It doesn't have to make sense."
Ron groaned and dropped his head to the table.
Across from him, Hermione was paying little attention to the Weasley family drama. Her focus was elsewhere—specifically, on the boy sitting beside her, who seemed lost in thought, his grey eyes fixed on something in the middle distance.
She'd been waiting for this moment. Waiting for him to notice.
For weeks now, she'd been different. Gone were the days of rushing from library to classroom with hair escaping its confines and robes askew. She'd taken Ginny's advice to heart, though she'd never admit it aloud. Every morning now included a few extra minutes with a brush, a careful examination in the mirror, a small but deliberate effort to present herself differently.
It was silly, she knew. Pathetic, even. The world was falling apart—Dumbledore gone, Voldemort rising, war on the horizon—and here she was, worrying about her hair. But whenever she looked at Elian, whenever she felt that strange flutter in her chest, she couldn't help it.
For myself, she told herself firmly. I'm doing this for myself. Not for him.
But as Elian's gaze finally turned toward her, as his eyes swept over her with what might have been appreciation, she felt her heart skip anyway.
He noticed. He finally noticed.
She held her breath, waiting for him to speak, to say something—anything—about the change.
Elian's eyes met hers. His lips parted.
Then his gaze slid past her, upward, toward the ceiling.
Hermione blinked. "What—"
Elian was staring at the enchanted ceiling now, his expression intent, searching. The ceiling showed the night sky—clouds scudding across a crescent moon, stars peeking through gaps—but there was nothing unusual there. Nothing except the usual ghosts drifting through the Great Hall, transparent and murmuring.
"Elian?" Hermione's voice was smaller than she intended. "What are you looking at?"
He didn't answer. His focus was absolute, his eyes tracking something—or someone—across the ceiling.
Harry noticed. Ron looked up from his pudding. Ginny tilted her head, curious.
"What is it?" Harry asked. "Something wrong?"
Elian was silent for another long moment. Then, suddenly:
"Have any of you seen Moaning Myrtle?"
The question was so unexpected that for a moment, no one responded.
"Myrtle?" Ron repeated. "The ghost in the girls' bathroom? Why would you—"
"When's the last time anyone saw her?" Elian interrupted. His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it—a focused intensity that made the others lean in.
Hermione frowned, pushing aside her disappointment. "I... I'm not sure. Now that you mention it, I haven't heard her crying in weeks. She's usually so... vocal."
"Exactly." Elian rose from the bench. "I need to check something."
"Check what?" Harry was on his feet too, his hand instinctively going to his wand. "What's going on?"
Elian hesitated. For a moment, it seemed he might dismiss them, might walk away without explanation as he so often did. But something in Harry's expression—or perhaps in Hermione's—made him pause.
"Dumbledore told me to watch for changes," he said quietly. "Small things. Things that seem unimportant but aren't. A ghost that stops haunting her usual spot..." He shook his head. "It could be nothing. But I need to be sure."
"I'll come with you," Harry said immediately.
"Me too." Hermione was already standing.
Ron looked between them, sighed, and pushed himself up. "Fine. But if Myrtle tries to flood the bathroom again, I'm not helping clean it up."
Ginny laughed. "I'll stay here. Someone should warn you if Umbridge starts sniffing around."
Elian nodded once, then turned and walked toward the entrance of the Great Hall. Harry, Hermione, and Ron followed, leaving behind their half-finished dinners and the lingering echoes of a conversation that had just taken a very strange turn.
As they walked, Hermione fell into step beside Elian. She wanted to ask about his distraction earlier, about whether he'd noticed anything different about her. But the moment had passed, and now there were more important things.
Still, she couldn't quite suppress a small, private hope. Maybe he hadn't said anything because he was focused on something else. Maybe later—
She cut off the thought before it could fully form. Focus, Hermione. There's a reason for this. A reason he's worried about a ghost.
But as they climbed the stairs toward the first-floor girls' bathroom, she couldn't help glancing at him—at the set of his jaw, the calm certainty in his movements, the way he seemed to carry the weight of the world without ever bending under it.
For myself, she reminded herself.
But she wasn't sure she believed it anymore.
(End of Chapter)
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