The Gryffindor common room had become a cauldron of simmering, adolescent tension. The once comfortable armchairs by the fire were now a demilitarized zone, a silent testament to the fractures within their group.
The breaking point came on a cold, wet Saturday afternoon. The air was thick with the smell of damp robes and unspoken resentments. Ron and Lavender were in a corner, engaged in a nauseating public display of affection. Ginny and Dean were huddled together, with Ginny occasionally shooting icy glares in Ariana's direction. And in the center of it all, Hermione and Harry were having their most explosive argument yet.
"It's irresponsible, Harry! Utterly irresponsible!" Hermione was saying, her voice shrill with a mixture of academic indignation and displaced frustration. "You used that Prince's non-verbal levitation charm on Ron's teacup! You didn't know what it would do! It could have been a dark curse!"
"It just made the teacup float, Hermione!" Harry shot back, equally exasperated. "It worked better than the one in the charms textbook for control! This Prince knows what he's doing!"
"You don't know that! You're putting your trust in some unknown, potentially dark wizard scribbling in the margins of a book instead of in established magical theory!"
Ariana sat nearby, trying to read a treatise on the magic and its nature. But the escalating argument was an unavoidable, high-frequency distraction. She had already warned Harry about the spells. She had already tried to reason with Hermione about the source of her anger. Their continued, circular conflict was achieving nothing. It was a closed loop of irrationality.
She looked around the room. She saw the most powerful magical alliance of their generation, a group that had faced down Basilisks and Dementors, now completely paralyzed. They were consumed by jealousy, insecurity, and hormonal angst. The war was brewing outside the castle walls, a tangible, gathering storm, and they were inside, bickering about a textbook.
A profound, cold clarity settled over her.
She was done.
She was done trying to manage their illogical emotional states. She was done waiting for them to see the bigger picture. She was done wasting her time and energy on problems that they themselves refused to solve.
Slowly, deliberately, she closed her book. The soft thud of the cover seemed to echo in the suddenly quiet corner of the common room. Harry and Hermione stopped their argument, turning to look at her.
She did not speak. She did not offer a logical solution or a calming word. She simply stood up, her expression a mask of serene, impenetrable indifference. She looked at Harry's frustrated face, at Hermione's tear-streaked anger, at Ron's oblivious snogging, at Ginny's baseless hostility.
And then, she turned and walked away. She glided out of the Gryffindor common room without a single backward glance, leaving a stunned, uncomfortable silence in her wake.
She did not go to the library. She did not go to the Room of Requirement. She walked directly to Dumbledore's office. He was not there. She left a single, concise note on his desk: "Taking a short leave of absence to deal with a pressing external security matter. Will return shortly."
Then, she walked to a deserted corridor, and with a faint pop that no one heard, she Disapparated.
For the next two days, she was simply… gone. Her absence was a gaping hole in the fabric of their group. Hermione's anger dissolved into worried-frenzy. Harry's frustration turned to anxious guilt.
Even Ron, pulled from his Lavender-induced haze, noticed her absence and felt a prickle of unease. They searched the castle, but she was nowhere to be found.
On the third morning, the Daily Prophet arrived, and the front page caused the entire Great Hall to fall into a state of stunned, disbelieving silence.
The headline was stark, brutal, and world-changing:
FENRIR GREYBACK CAPTURED!
Notorious Werewolf Leader Found Beaten and Bound on Ministry Steps
The article was thin on details, thick with panicked speculation. It stated that in the early hours of the morning, Ministry workers arriving for the day had found the most feared and savage werewolf in Britain lying unconscious on the steps of the Ministry of Magic. He was bound in what experts were calling "unbreakable, non-magical restraints of an unknown alloy," his wand was snapped, and he had been, according to St. Mungo's Healers, "systematically and comprehensively beaten to within an inch of his life." There were no witnesses. No one knew who had done it. It was as if he had been struck down by a vengeful ghost.
In the midst of the shocked chatter, a single owl swooped into the Great Hall and dropped a letter in front of Hermione. Her hands trembled as she opened it. The handwriting was Ariana's, calm and neat.
Hermione,
I am taking a few days of rest at my London residence. The security matter has been resolved.
Please inform Harry that he is still not to use any of the Prince's unverified spells.
Ariana.
Hermione stared at the note, then at the newspaper, then back at the note. Her mind, brilliant and fast, connected the dots with a speed that made her feel dizzy. A security matter. A captured werewolf. An absent Ariana.
She looked at Harry, who was also staring at the paper, his face a mask of awe. They both understood.
Ariana had grown tired of their childish problems. So, she had left the castle and, in the space of forty-eight hours, had single-handedly hunted down, defeated, and delivered the most dangerous werewolf in the world to justice, simply to have something productive to do.
The sheer, terrifying competence of it was a splash of ice water on their collective teenage drama. Their arguments, their jealousies, their silly feuds… they were utterly, laughably insignificant in the face of what Ariana was capable of, in the face of the real war she was fighting while they were distracted.
A profound sense of shame settled over Hermione and Harry. They had been wasting their time, and hers.
In her quiet London flat, Ariana sat, sipping a cup of tea and reading a book on advanced stellar mechanics. The fight with Greyback had been challenging, a useful application of combat theory and physical force, but it was over now. She had identified a problem, created a plan, executed it with brutal efficiency, and removed a dangerous piece from the enemy's side of the board. And, she had even got the chance to vent her frustrations on a well enough target. It was a logical and satisfying use of her time. And now, she could finally get some peace and quiet.