Ariana's self-imposed exile in London was a period of intense, uninterrupted productivity. The quiet of her flat was a welcome respite from the illogical storm of teenage emotions at Hogwarts. She spent her days refining the energy conversion matrix for the Chimera Project, the clean, elegant logic of magical physics a soothing balm to her mind. She did not worry about what was happening back at school. She had presented her friends with a clear, undeniable data point regarding their own trivialities. It was up to them to process it.
Back at Hogwarts, the data point had hit with the force of a Bludger.
The news of Fenrir Greyback's capture, coupled with Ariana's pointedly casual note, had shattered the bubble of their self-involved drama. The immediate aftermath was a tense, fractured silence. But the silence could not last.
The first explosion happened in the library. Daphne Greengrass, her Slytherin patience finally exhausted, cornered Hermione between the shelves of "Advanced Arithmancy."
"Are you happy now?" Daphne's voice was a low, icy hiss. "He's back. The Dark Lord. Werewolves are being captured single-handedly because our supposed protector is tired of babysitting. And you are moping in corners because a boy with the emotional range of a teaspoon is snogging someone else."
Hermione recoiled, her face flushing with anger and shame. "That's not fair!"
"Isn't it?" Daphne countered, stepping closer. "Ariana has been trying to prepare us for a war. She has been arming us, teaching us, trusting us with secrets that could get us all killed. And in return, you have repaid her with petty jealousy and public arguments over a potions textbook. While she is out there fighting the real battles, you are here, creating a hostile and inefficient work environment for the rest of us. She left because of you, Granger. Because your melodrama became a tactical liability."
"That's not true!" Hermione cried, her voice cracking. "Ron and Harry—"
"Ron is an idiot and Harry is a mess," Daphne cut her off coldly. "We all know that. But you, Hermione, you are supposed to be the logical one. You are her best friend. And you have been letting other people's lives compromise the most important alliance in this castle. You should be ashamed."
With that, Daphne turned and swept away, leaving Hermione trembling amidst the bookshelves, her face stained with tears. Every word had been a perfectly aimed dagger of truth, and they had all found their mark.
The second intervention was less subtle. That afternoon, the Gryffindor common room portrait swung open to admit a veritable whirlwind of maternal fury. Molly Weasley, her face set like granite, marched into the room, her knitting needles clicking ominously in her hands. She ignored everyone else and stomped directly over to where Ron was attempting to discreetly cuddle with Lavender.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley," she said, her voice boomed across the room.
Ron and Lavender sprang apart as if electrocuted.
"I have just had a very long, very informative chat via Floo with Albus Dumbledore," Mrs. Weasley continued, her eyes blazing. "He has explained to me the pressure Harry is under. He has explained the quiet support and protection Miss Dumbledore has been providing him. And he has explained to me that you, my son, have been acting like a utterly clueless garden gnome."
Ron went from red to a ghastly white.
"There is a war on!" she hissed. "Your best friend is a target, and you are preoccupied with who is snogging whom in a corridor! You will apologize to Harry. You will apologize to Hermione. And when Ariana returns, you will apologize to her for being an absolute pillock. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Mum," Ron mumbled, utterly defeated.
The third intervention was the quietest, but perhaps the most profound. Harry, feeling lost and adrift, used his two-way mirror to call Sirius. He poured out his frustrations—about Ron, about Ginny's coldness, about the pressure of it all.
Sirius listened patiently from the cozy kitchen of Grimmauld Place. When Harry was done, his godfather sighed.
"Harry," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "You need to understand something about Ariana. She's not like us. Remus and I… and your dad… we were all heart. We ran on emotion, on loyalty, on instinct. It got us into a lot of trouble, but it was who we were. Ariana… she runs on logic. It doesn't mean she doesn't care. In fact, I think she cares more than anyone. But she shows it by solving problems, not by holding your hand."
He leaned closer to the mirror. "She sees this war as a great, complex puzzle, and she is methodically, brilliantly, taking the enemy's pieces off the board. But she can't do that if her own pieces are running around knocking each other over. Her leaving wasn't about punishing you. It was a strategic retreat. She removed herself from an illogical situation so she could focus on the real threat."
"So what do I do?" Harry asked miserably.
"You get your own house in order," Sirius said simply. "You're the leader of that little group, Harry, whether you like it or not. You need to remind them what you're all fighting for. And as for Ginny…" He paused, a wry smile on his face. "You're a teenage boy who is suddenly spending all his time with three of the most beautiful and powerful witches in the school. She's a teenage girl who has had a crush on you since she was ten. It's not rocket science, kid. She's jealous. Just give it time."
The interventions, both public and private, worked. That evening, a shame-faced Ron apologized to Harry, and then to Hermione, admitting he'd been a git. The apology was clumsy, but it was sincere, and it was enough to begin mending the fractures. Hermione, her own pride shattered by Daphne's verbal assault, accepted his apology with a quiet, tearful nod.
The common room was still a tangled mess of unresolved feelings, but the air had cleared. The melodrama had been lanced by a series of sharp, painful truths. They had all been forced to look at their own behavior, stripped of their excuses.