Godric's Hollow.
Dumbledore's ancestral home.
By now, Blake and Dumbledore had already returned to Hogwarts, leaving only Aberforth and Ariana behind.
Aberforth stared at his sister for a long while, curiosity flickering across his face.
"Why are you still so young after all these years?" he finally asked.
Ariana shook her head gently. "Aberforth, I can't tell you about this."
"Oh… alright." Aberforth didn't press further.
Even for someone like him, it was clear that knowing too much about time travel might ruin its delicate balance.
But after a pause, he spoke again, his voice softer: "Even if you can't tell me… I just want you to know—you're perfect as you are."
"You look so much better like this than… well, ending up as an old witch like us."
"It's almost exactly how I remember you," he added sincerely.
Ariana now looked barely older than when she'd "died," around eighteen or so.
That kept Aberforth from feeling the painful disconnect of decades lost.
"Yeah… it really is good to stay like this," Ariana murmured, fingers lightly brushing the small, plain ring on her right index finger.
That enchanted ring protected her against the ravages of time, keeping her body young.
Blake had given it to her, along with a solemn warning: she must never tell anyone—not even her own brother.
At Hogwarts, the empty plates in front of Blake were stacked impressively high.
But at last, he pushed them away, finally full.
"You… why did you suddenly turn into such a glutton?" Hermione asked, staring at the mountain of dishes.
"Ahem… it's really not that much food," Blake protested weakly. "The plates are small, so it just looks like a lot."
He let out a small belch, cheeks flushing a little.
Although his appetite wasn't quite as monstrous as last night, it was still far greater than usual.
Hermione's teasing might not be entirely wrong.
Seeing Blake avoid her gaze, Hermione let out a quiet sigh.
"Well… if there's something you can't tell me, that's fine," she said gently.
"Anyway, I should go to the library now."
She gathered her books, slung her heavy schoolbag over her shoulder, and stood up.
Hermione wasn't the type to gossip or pry when someone clearly didn't want to share.
Besides, she had enough to worry about—homework was piling up.
As Hermione turned to leave, Blake's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of a thin chain around her neck, peeking from under her robes.
Though he couldn't see through clothes with his Eyes of Truth, Blake guessed immediately.
A Time-Turner. That would explain why Hermione always looked so exhausted.
She must be speeding through time, stretching her days several times over to manage all her classes.
"Hermione," Blake called softly, stopping her. He fished a small pouch from his pocket and handed it over.
"If you keep your books in here, your bag won't be so heavy."
Hermione took it, a spark of joy breaking through her tiredness.
"Then… thank you, Blake," she said, her smile small but genuine.
She tucked the pouch away and headed off.
Blake watched her go, thoughtful.
"So… was my time travel somehow triggered by Hermione's Time-Turner?"
But then he remembered: his future self had told Ariana to tell him, "Let everything take its course…"
Blake fell silent, mind swirling.
A voice, smooth and just slightly mocking, cut through his thoughts.
"We've only been apart a day, and you already look so lovesick? Why don't you run after her?"
Blake turned to see Cassandra standing behind him, arms crossed, her bright eyes narrowed.
He forced a grin. "Well… looks like you're recovering nicely."
Cassandra's smirk slipped, and she touched her still-sore cheek unconsciously.
Blake stood, stretching. "Now that I'm full, I should do something else."
His eyes flicked toward Cassandra, and a faint blush colored her face.
"Have you eaten? If so… want to come somewhere with me?"
"No… I'm not interested." Cassandra shook her head, voice curt.
"Come on," Blake coaxed. "I'll show you something amazing. You'll love it."
"I… I haven't eaten yet, so I'll pass." Cassandra regretted teasing Blake now; she still hadn't forgotten how he'd scared her that morning in the Room of Requirement.
"It's fine if you haven't eaten," Blake persisted. "I've got food that'll fill you up."
"I… I really should stay," she hedged. "I've got to work on Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration essay tonight…"
"You can write it after," Blake replied easily.
"I… I'm in a hurry."
"But it's not due until next week," Blake pointed out.
"I… I want to finish early."
"I'll help you write it afterward."
"Finish… and then what are you going to do again…?" Cassandra stammered, cheeks warming.
In the end, half-pushed and half-coaxed, Cassandra allowed Blake to lead her out of the Great Hall.
Meanwhile, Peter Pettigrew was in a far sorrier state.
Hunger gnawed at him worse than he'd ever known.
Before, he could have sneaked food easily.
Now, his limbs trembled from weakness; even the idea of scurrying made his paws ache.
He'd barely managed to escape Ronald's dormitory and dodge Crookshanks, who stalked him tirelessly.
Only by slipping into an ancient, seldom-used secret passage had Peter shaken off the cat… for now.
He crawled painfully through the tunnel, every movement draining what little strength he had left.
He knew the other exit led near the kitchens.
If he could just find a few scraps—anything—to keep from collapsing…
At last, Peter emerged from the tunnel, trembling, and crept toward the kitchens.
The grand kitchen door, hidden behind a painting of fruit, was impossible for him to open as a rat.
But Peter remembered another way in: a mouse hole he and the Marauders had discovered long ago.
"Found it!" Peter's beady eyes brightened at the sight of the small gap in the stonework.
If he could just eat, he could hide again, waiting for Sirius to be recaptured.
When that happened, Peter planned to reveal himself at just the right moment, winning sympathy as the 'poor, loyal friend'…
"Blake, where… are you taking me?" Cassandra asked nervously, head lowered.
They were now in an unfamiliar, increasingly secluded corridor.
"You haven't eaten yet, right? I'm taking you somewhere special," Blake replied breezily.
"I… I don't want to eat," Cassandra muttered, face flushed.
"It's late… do you plan to bully me again at night?"
Blake nearly tripped. "What? Little girl, how dirty are your thoughts?"
"You're one to talk about being dirty!" Cassandra shot back, glaring.
"Ahem… forget that," Blake said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.
"Hmph!" Cassandra huffed, turning away.
But when Blake asked, "Then why follow me?" she stubbornly retorted, "I'm coming!"
They stopped in front of a portrait showing a silver dish piled with pears.
Blake reached out and lightly tickled one painted pear.
To Cassandra's amazement, it shivered as if giggling.
The wall clicked, revealing a brass knocker on the pear.
Blake pulled gently, and a hidden door swung open.
"What… where are we?" Cassandra whispered, stepping in behind him.
"Welcome to my favorite place," Blake grinned. "The Hogwarts kitchens!"
Inside, dozens of house-elves bustled, cooking and scrubbing.
Cassandra gasped. "Wow… so many house-elves!"
Though her family had a house-elf, she'd never seen this many together.
"Aha! Good evening, Palmer! Keith, your roast chicken last night was excellent! Bud, careful with those tall stacks of plates…" Blake greeted them cheerfully, remembering each name.
The elves beamed at Blake, voices chiming in excitement.
"Oh! It's the honorable, great Mr. Green!" one squeaked.
They adored him; Blake always remembered names and sometimes brought them sweets.
"Okay, okay, everyone," Blake laughed gently. "Don't let me keep you from work."
"So considerate!" an elf praised.
"Yes, so gentle!" added another.
Most elves returned to work, but a few stayed, bowing respectfully.
"Dear Mr. Green, what can we do for you?" asked Palmer.
"Palmer, could you bring us something delicious? My girlfriend hasn't eaten yet tonight," Blake said, smiling.
"Oh! Mr. Green is so thoughtful!" Palmer squeaked.
The elves bustled into action. Two quickly set up a small table and chairs, while others brought steaming plates.
Soon, a feast lay before them.
"Please enjoy," Palmer said, bowing.
Blake thanked them warmly and gestured Cassandra to sit.
"Come on—eat. You must be starving."
Blake speared a hot dog and set it on her plate.
Cassandra picked at it shyly, big green eyes flicking to Blake.
"Don't like it?" Blake asked gently.
Cassandra hesitated, then whispered, "Did you just say I was your… girlfriend?"
"Yeah. What? Aren't you willing?" Blake teased.
"I… I…" Cassandra blushed fiercely, then blurted out, "What about Hermione?"
Blake chuckled, spreading his hands. "Aha, of course… I want them all!"
"I knew it! You bastard!" Cassandra balled her fist.
"You're all my wings!" Blake declared dramatically. "If a little bird like me loses a wing, wouldn't I be miserable? Can you bear that?"
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