"But studying isn't just about attending classes. Writing essays, organizing notes—don't those count too?"
Dylan pointed at the stack of parchment, its edges crinkled from ink smudges. "With the time you've got now, finishing all that properly would take a miracle—unless you're using time magic. Oh, wait, you do have that, but you're not using it well."
Hermione's eyes widened slightly. Dylan's words sparked something new. She'd never thought of it that way. She'd always seen the Time-Turner as a tool for juggling classes, not for tackling the mountain of homework eating up her hours.
"Even 'Miss Know-It-All' is frowning over her work," Dylan teased, glancing at her furrowed brow. "That's a sign even you need more time."
"Miss Know-It-All." Hermione used to hate that nickname. When Snape first sneered it, she'd cried in the bathroom, feeling it mocked her hard work. But coming from Dylan, it felt different—like a nod to her brilliance, laced with understanding. She let out a soft chuckle, the exhaustion in her eyes easing a bit.
"But just using the Time-Turner for homework isn't enough," Dylan continued. He waved his hand, and a glass of Butterbeer floated over, landing smoothly in his grip. The amber liquid left delicate arcs on the glass. "You need rest too. Otherwise, you're just spreading out your all-nighters. You'll still burn out, maybe even waste more time rushing through everything."
Hermione bit her lip, fingers brushing the Time-Turner's chain. Dylan's words loosened the tight knot of stress she'd been carrying. She thought of her routine: three or four hours of sleep, powered by Pepperup Potions during the day, scarfing meals between library marathons until it closed. At this rate, forget earning twelve O.W.L.s—she'd collapse before exams.
"Honestly," Dylan said, taking a sip of his drink, his tone growing serious, "you should drop the classes you don't like." Seeing her face tense, he pressed on. "The Time-Turner folds your time, but it's still draining your life. Spending it on subjects you don't care about isn't worth it."
His words hit harder than Harry's grumbling about Divination being "rubbish." Harry just disliked it because he was bad at it. Dylan, though, was talking about using time wisely. Hermione glanced at her copy of Unfogging the Future, its margins filled with skeptical question marks, and for the first time, she wavered.
"It's just a suggestion," Dylan said, standing and stretching. The firelight cast a long shadow behind him. "It's your life. You've got to make the call. Just make sure you won't regret it later." He flashed a smile, holding his empty glass. "It's late. Night."
As Dylan wove through the noisy crowd toward the boys' dormitory, Hermione looked at her scattered homework and touched the Time-Turner. After a quiet moment, her lips curved upward. She pushed Unfogging the Future aside, grabbed her quill, and jotted down a new schedule. This time, she'd use the Time-Turner to steal an extra hour of sleep.
When Dylan reached the dorm, Dean and Seamus were still buzzing about Quidditch, their bed curtains wide open. They'd probably head out soon. Dylan didn't care. He shed his robes, cast a quick Scourgify, and set a Silencing Charm around his bed before slipping into his four-poster and pulling the curtains tight. McGonagall would herd them to bed soon enough.
He'd barely closed his eyes when he drifted off. But not long after, a violent shake jolted him awake. Dylan's eyes snapped open, his hand instinctively grabbing his wand from under the pillow, fingers poised to cast.
"Hey, hey, Dylan! Easy! It's us!" Harry's panicked voice came from his left. An arm clamped onto his left side, while Ron's ragged breathing sounded from his right. "Don't hex us! Chill! Look—McGonagall's here!"
Dylan blinked, the fog of sleep clearing. His curtains were half-open, Harry and Ron gripping him like their lives depended on it, faces taut with nerves. At the dorm door stood McGonagall, stern-faced, wand in hand. The dying fireplace embers glinted off her glasses.
The room was a mess—curtains on all four beds yanked askew. McGonagall, though serious, looked less imposing than usual. Her silver-gray hair was tucked into a dark hairnet, a few stray strands dangling at her temples. Her black-and-white checkered pajamas—Dylan's gift—stood out in the moonlight, embroidered with black cats: some hunched like fluffballs, others batting at yarn, one licking its paw on a moon motif. The cats shifted with her breathing, softening her stern demeanor.
"Dylan, now that you're awake, come out. Your friends will explain what happened," McGonagall said, her voice hoarse, likely from being roused herself. Her robe's hem swept the doorframe as she turned, the hairnet's loose thread quivering. Dylan blinked—she'd never looked so… endearing.
He glanced at his pajamas, then swiftly changed into his school uniform, buttons neatly fastened, sleeves rolled precisely to his forearms. Following the crowd to the common room, he saw the fire reduced to glowing coals, a few sparks popping. Armchairs were shoved together haphazardly, and a spilled jug of pumpkin juice had stained the carpet orange.
"What happened?" Dylan asked, settling into a relatively straight chair.
He noticed Neville huddled in a corner of the sofa, shoulders shaking, tears dripping onto his clenched trousers, leaving dark patches. It clicked—Sirius Black must've broken in. Dylan had seen something like this in a Divination session last week but hadn't expected it tonight. Divination was tricky; crystal ball visions synced perfectly with reality, but seeing a full day's details meant spending a whole day in a trance. So, Dylan only checked key moments—like who'd invade the castle or get into trouble in the Forbidden Forest. Exact times, like whether it was Wednesday at 3 a.m. or Thursday at midnight, always slipped his mind.
"Don't even start! Because of him, we nearly died!" A bespectacled boy leapt from his chair, two buttons on his pajamas popping off. He jabbed a finger at Neville, voice blazing. "He wrote a week's worth of passwords on parchment and lost it! How else could Black have gotten into Gryffindor Tower?"
Neville's sobs grew sharper, though he tried to stifle them, his tear-streaked face earning disgusted looks from others. He fumbled for his wand at his feet but was shaking too hard to pick it up after three tries.
Dylan ignored the boy's rant, calmly retrieving Neville's wand and placing it in his hand. "Next time, store passwords in your Remembrall and keep it on you," he said evenly, his voice cutting through the room's noise like a stone rippling a lake. "It's safer than paper."
"I-I know," Neville mumbled, nodding frantically as he clutched his Remembrall. Tears splashed onto it, making the white mist inside swirl restlessly—a sign he'd forgotten something important again.
Dylan opened his mouth but couldn't find words. The others, half-amused, half-frustrated, fell silent too. The bespectacled boy huffed and looked away.
Dylan's mind raced. Neville's forgetfulness seemed ingrained. He'd seen photos of Neville's mother, once a vibrant witch, now reduced to giggling over a teddy bear in St. Mungo's. The Death Eaters' Cruciatus Curse had shattered her and her husband, leaving scars on baby Neville. When Dylan first met him, Neville was so timid he'd rehearse his own name three times before speaking. Over the years, Dylan's influence had helped Neville grow bolder, though he wasn't debating like Dean yet.
Maybe a new spell for the Remembrall? Dylan mused. With Dreamweaving, he could weave passwords into Neville's dreams, ensuring he'd recall them clearly each morning. It wouldn't change Neville entirely but could help.
The common room quieted, only the crackle of breaking charcoal lingering. Dylan took Neville's Remembrall, his fingers grazing its cool surface as he silently chanted. Golden light slipped from his fingertips, threading into the glass like fine needles, calming the mist inside. He'd tweaked Neville's Remembrall before, but with Dreamweaving, he could refine it further.
Nearby, Harry and Ron whispered, their hushed voices like scurrying mice to Dylan's sharp ears. "You're sure he had a knife?" Harry asked, disbelief lacing his tone. He touched his scar, which hadn't burned last night. "He had the chance to…"
"I saw it clear as day!" Ron hissed, glancing at Dylan before shielding his mouth. "The knife was gleaming! If I hadn't rolled under the bed, I'd be—" He shuddered, gripping Harry's arm tighter. "Why didn't Black go for Dylan's curtains? Why me?"
"If he'd woken Dylan, I bet Dylan would've taken him down—like he almost hexed us just now!" Ron added, voice barely a whisper.
Dylan's fingers paused on the Remembrall. He knew why Black hadn't targeted him. It was tied to who'd been "keeping" that rat. But Ron, still shaken, didn't need to know that yet.
"Maybe," Harry murmured, absently tracing the armchair's worn carvings, his mind churning. When Sirius Black burst into the dorm, his silver knife had aimed for Ron's bed but froze when he saw who was there. The shock and pain in Black's eyes didn't fit a murderer's profile. And that last glance at Harry's pillow—cold, yet layered with something complex, like he was confirming something. If Black was innocent, why not speak up? Could the Ministry really lock someone in Azkaban without a trial? Harry recalled Hagrid saying Black was laughing maniacally when arrested, shouting about "protecting Lily and James's son." Everyone thought he was mad, but was there more to that laugh?
The next morning, the Gryffindor common room was even grimmer. McGonagall appeared after an all-night search, her gaze like twin searchlights, locking onto Neville with unyielding intensity.