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Chapter 86
"Why do you think Hagrid's class was pushed back?"
Ron asked the question while poking at his dinner, sitting at the Gryffindor table on the very first night of term.
"I don't know either," Harry said, sounding a little dispirited.
Under normal circumstances, Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures class should have taken place that afternoon. Harry wasn't particularly passionate about the subject, but both he and Ron had hoped to attend as soon as possible. They knew Slytherin shared the class with Gryffindor—and without them there, Hagrid's overly kind nature made him an easy target.
"Maybe it has something to do with the Dementors," Hermione said hesitantly.
Harry shuddered despite himself. "Hagrid ran into Dementors on school grounds? Then we should tell Professor Dumbledore immediately!"
Several nearby Gryffindors turned to look at them, faces tightening. Fear and disgust toward those creatures was universal.
"No—no, that's not what I meant!" Hermione said quickly, alarmed. The school year had barely started; losing points now would be disastrous.
"I mean…" She tilted her head, thinking. "The magical creatures Hagrid keeps might've been affected by the Dementors."
Ever since Harry's encounter on the train, Hermione had spent much of her free time researching Dementors.
"They feed on happiness. Humans have the most complex emotions, so everyone assumes Dementors only target people—and most of the time, that's true," she continued, voice growing more confident as she noticed a few Ravenclaws listening in. "But some animals have intelligence and emotional depth close to that of wizards. Those creatures can be affected too."
Harry frowned. "Then Hagrid's creatures really could be in trouble…"
As strange and dangerous as they were, even Harry had to admit that many of Hagrid's animals were disturbingly intelligent.
Hermione nodded. "The Dementors are stationed near the Forbidden Forest. It's entirely possible."
Ron sighed and glanced under the table. "Poor Scabbers. He's lost weight again. He must've been affected too."
In Ron's eyes, his rat was extraordinarily clever.
Hermione rested her chin in her hands, staring at the food before her with little appetite. "Crookshanks hasn't been well either."
Her ginger cat—half Kneazle—was unusually perceptive, capable of instinctively sensing danger and deceit.
Ron grimaced. "Can you not mention that fat cat?"
As if on cue, Scabbers trembled beneath the table.
"It's called Crookshanks, not 'fat cat'," Hermione said sharply, correcting him word by word.
"I don't care," Ron snapped. "Just keep it locked in your dormitory."
The air between them cooled instantly.
"You don't need to worry about that," Hermione replied stiffly.
Ron scoffed. "Professor Trelawney says some people are born with bad auras. Maybe that cat's just like its owner—too dull for Dementors to even notice."
Harry's foot shot out under the table, kicking Ron hard.
Ron had gone too far.
Even Professor McGonagall openly mocked Divination, yet Ron was using it to attack Hermione—his friend. Words like that hurt far more when they came from someone you trusted.
Hermione slammed her fork and knife onto the table.
The dishes rattled; bits of food scattered across the surface.
"Divination is useless," she said, voice shaking with fury. "Compared to proper magical theory and Arithmancy, it's worse than rubbish!"
Her face was flushed, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"My aura is wrong?" she repeated, incredulous.
Then she leaned forward, eyes blazing.
"Fine. Let me—someone with a 'bad aura'—make a prophecy for Ron Weasley."
Her voice dropped into a low, eerie imitation of Professor Trelawney.
"You—red-haired boy—will suffer a bloody disaster tomorrow."
It sounded less like a prophecy and more like a curse.
The next second, Hermione grabbed her bag and stormed out of the Great Hall without looking back.
"She's crying," Harry said quietly.
He had seen her lift her sleeve as she hurried away, wiping at her eyes.
Ron frowned, then forced a crooked smile. "Guess that means I'll be lucky tomorrow, eh?"
He nudged Harry with his elbow.
"Don't you think so?"
Harry didn't answer.
His expression was flat—and for the first time that night, Ron felt a faint, uneasy chill creep up his spine.