The afternoon sunlight filtered through the gaps in the heavy curtains, lazily spilling onto the old wooden floor of the History of Magic classroom.
Dust particles, visible to the naked eye, floated in the air, slowly spinning and settling within the beams of light.
On the podium, Professor Binns, paler than a dead man, was suspended semi-transparently in mid-air. He recited his notes mechanically in that characteristic, monotonous voice that sounded like a fingernail scratching across dry parchment.
"...Therefore, in 1612, an unpleasant meeting took place at a Goblin inn near Hogsmeade. Ragnar I believed that Wizards lacked sufficient respect for the silverwork manufactured by Goblins, and this misunderstanding eventually led to..."
His voice was like an old, poorly maintained vacuum cleaner, continuously sucking all the oxygen and vitality out of the classroom.
Below the podium, the Slytherin first-years were undergoing a severe test of willpower.
The entire classroom had fallen into a state known as collective coma.
Vincent Crabbe had completely given up resistance. He was slumped over his desk, drool trickling from the corner of his mouth onto his brand-new copy of 'A History of Magic', letting out a slight snore.
Goyle had his eyes open, but his gaze was vacant; clearly, his soul had drifted off to the kitchens or somewhere else entirely.
Even Draco Malfoy, who always prioritized his decorum, was now propping his chin up with one hand, his eyelids as heavy as if two lead weights were hanging from them.
His quill was unconsciously drawing wobbly circles on his parchment, looking like some kind of disintegrating broomstick.
Only one person remained awake.
Tamara Riddle sat right in the center of the first row, her back perfectly straight.
The quill in her hand made a 'rustling' sound on the parchment, writing at an extremely fast pace.
But that didn't mean she was taking notes.
If someone leaned in to look, they would find that after every sentence Professor Binns uttered, she had drawn a large 'X', followed by annotations like 'Rubbish','Stupid embellishment', or 'Completely illogical'.
"Misunderstanding?"
Tamara wrote the word heavily on the parchment, then crossed it out with force.
"This is the most ridiculous joke I've ever heard."
She sneered inwardly.
As the Dark Lord who had once nearly ruled the entire Wizarding World, she was all too familiar with this period of history.
Goblins.
Those greedy, base creatures with long, slender fingers and perpetually filthy appearances.
They never launched rebellions for things like dignity or over misunderstandings.
There was only one reason—greed.
They coveted the Wizards' wands; they coveted a power that their inferior bloodlines could never truly master.
Yet Professor Binns, this old fool who had been dead for who knows how many years, was actually beautifying such blatant acts of plunder as a tragedy caused by a lack of communication.
"...Both sides missed the optimal time for peace negotiations due to arrogance."
Professor Binns continued in his hypnotic tone: "If the Wizarding Council of that time could have yielded a step and acknowledged the Goblins' ownership of silver, perhaps that riot, which lasted for three months, would not have occurred..."
"Ha."
A short, cold, and mockingly sharp chuckle abruptly broke the deathly silence of the classroom.
The laugh wasn't loud, but in a classroom filled only with Professor Binns's buzzing, it was exceptionally jarring.
It was like a needle pricking a balloon.
Professor Binns stopped.
His vacant eyes, hidden behind thick glasses, turned somewhat sluggishly, looking through the floating dust toward the student in the first row who had made the sound.
"...Is there a problem? Miss?"
Professor Binns asked slowly. He usually had no impression of his students; in his eyes, the living were just a shifting backdrop.
The previously drowsy Slytherin students were startled awake by this sudden interruption.
Draco jerked his head up, wiped the traces from the corner of his mouth, and looked at Tamara in some confusion.