She was genuinely curious about Lynn's future plans.
Lynn turned stiffly, eyes dull. 'I will master knowledge, enter university, then pursue a master's degree and strive to become a doctoral candidate.'
Hermione blinked in surprise. 'University? Master's? Doctorate?'
'You're going back to the Muggle World for further study?'
Rapidly searching her memory, Lynn realised she had never heard those terms in the Wizarding World.
Assuming they existed but were simply ignored because everyone focused on immediate schooling, she answered mechanically, 'I will continue my studies in the Wizarding World.'
Hermione looked puzzled. 'As far as I know, the British Wizarding World has no schools besides Hogwarts—no universities, master's programmes or doctorates at all.'
Lynn's brain short-circuited for a moment—there was only one magical school in the British Wizarding World: Hogwarts. So what happened after graduation?
She'd assumed Hogwarts' seven-year system was like a combined junior and senior high school, and that afterward you still had to test into university and climb higher.
Turns out it's the top of the ladder?
Seeing Lynn freeze, Hermione quickly reached out and patted her back.
"It's fine, it's fine. If you want to go to university, I'll come with you. We can aim for Cambridge, for University College London—we'll work hard and get into those top schools."
"If you want to do a master's, a doctorate, I'll be right there with you."
As she spoke, Hermione resolved that her parents had to start making arrangements for her and Lynn.
At the very least they'd have to self-study all the Muggle courses, register them at a school, and arrange to sit the exams on leave.
Only then could Lynn follow her own plans to attend university, pursue graduate studies, and earn higher degrees.
Whatever Lynn wanted to do, Hermione now instinctively began plotting for her—slipping herself into that future as well.
After a brief blank stare, Lynn nodded calmly. Yes, she had to keep studying.
The Wizarding World had no higher institutes beyond Hogwarts, but the Muggle World did.
Learning had no ceiling; she had to keep going.
In Lynn's mind, everything revolved around study; everything seemed to exist for the sake of study.
That crushing Defense Against the Dark Arts class finally ended; when the bell rang, Harry and Neville at the front felt as joyful as when people heard Lord Voldemort had died twelve years ago.
Harry hurried off the platform, snatched his bag, and bolted for the door.
He didn't even wait for Hermione, Ron, and Lynn. With an amused shake of her head, Hermione packed up, linked arms with Lynn, and left the classroom.
The Ravenclaws nearby, seeing Hermione leading away their darling, looked away and strolled out as if nothing had happened.
In the Great Hall, Hermione didn't let go until she'd escorted Lynn all the way to the Ravenclaw Table.
Only after Hermione had reached the Gryffindor Table and started eating did Lynn pick up her own fork and knife.
Head down over lunch, Lynn heard a soft bang from the Slytherin Table.
She glanced up: Draco Malfoy sat there, splattered head-to-toe in shimmering, shifting paint.
The burns she'd given him yesterday had healed completely.
She hadn't used Fiendfyre or any magically charged flame—just Hogwarts' own lighting fire, boosted by a Fire-Making Spell.
So he, Crabbe, and Goyle had nothing worse than ordinary scalds.
For Madam Pomfrey, treating such burns was easier than drinking water: two specialized charms and a vial of Potion, and all three boys walked out on the spot.
As for who had attacked them—since Professor Snape and Headmaster Dumbledore found no traces at the scene,
not even the faintest magical residue—the incident joined the earlier mystery of the exploding Slytherin Table.
This time, it was clearly another Little Eagle's handiwork.
The paint splattering Draco wasn't ordinary; it glittered and slithered over him like living things.
An alchemical product—Lynn identified it at once, then resumed eating.
Plenty of other Little Eagles recognized it too,
and almost in unison they looked toward their seventh-year Senior Platt.
A creation that dazzling, even in Ravenclaw House, was accepted as hers alone.
Sure enough, Platt nodded slightly to her housemates: they'd guessed right.
With daily "accidents" befalling Draco, Professor Snape was almost getting used to it.
The Little Eagles worked with true scholar style; unlike the Gryffindors, after the first day's clumsy attempt
they took precautions to keep their pranks untraceable.
Now, when Snape raised his wand to remove the paint, it merely paused a second before leaping off Draco and lunging at him.
Had Snape not dodged, the paint would have latched onto him instead.
Watching the puddle evaporate on the floor, Snape's mouth twitched.
He turned to the Staff Table; the Alchemy Professor cleared his throat, stepped down, and murmured a few alchemical terms at Draco.
At once most of the paint vanished, but a stubborn patch refused to disappear.
The Professor raised an eyebrow; he already knew whose work this was.
"Truly… tricky work," he said, glancing at Snape and the near-tearful Draco as he changed his adjective.
"I'm still far behind," Platt murmured, watching the Professor erase most of her creation.
"You're barely seventeen—he's studied Alchemy for decades. Don't belittle yourself and depress the rest of us."
A fellow Alchemy student groaned; if Platt counted as "far behind," what did that make them?
A waste of tuition?
What happened next convinced them they really had wasted it.
Platt stood, walked straight to Lynn, and, once Lynn swallowed, bent down gently.
"Lynn, may I ask how to keep my alchemical creations from being dispelled like that?"
Lynn turned, toneless. "Of course, Senior Platt."
She looked at Draco, her mind racing through the paint's structure and principles,
deduced how to dissolve it, then reversed the process to block that method.
In under five seconds she had the answer and recited it to Platt, step by logical step.
Platt nodded along, nearly reaching for a notebook.
Every Little Eagle studying Alchemy slumped in despair—yes, they really had wasted their years.
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