It was nothing like she had imagined... Amanda's mind raced through the analysis: even if she took the initiative to admit her mistake, the Professor would probably not lighten her punishment.
Reaching that final conclusion, Amanda nodded calmly. "All right. Thank you for the reminder, Senior."
Cho Chang sighed and reached out to ruffle Amanda's hair. "Go to sleep."
Amanda turned, walked to her bed with mechanical steps, kicked off her shoes and socks, and lay down fully clothed.
Sleeping in her clothes saved time; it wasted none of her precious study hours—she was used to it.
Seeing Amanda in bed, Cho Chang and Marietta Edgecombe went to their own beds, straightened the covers, and lay down to sleep.
Awake once every hour, Amanda opened her eyes at exactly seven. She had fallen asleep at one; six hours had passed.
She sat up, grabbed a change of clothes and her toiletries, and walked into the bathroom.
Showering at top speed, she gave her hair two careless rubs with the towel, stepped out, packed her bag, and hurried out of the Ravenclaw Common Room.
She walked while reading a book, her still-damp hair streaming behind her, soaking her wizard robe and even the shirt beneath, which clung to her back.
Yet Amanda seemed oblivious, never breaking stride, her eyes never leaving the page.
Whether her hair was dry or not was irrelevant; trivial matters mustn't cut into study time.
As for the headache damp hair might bring—pain was something she'd long since grown accustomed to; it wouldn't affect her studies, and that was enough.
Entering the Great Hall, she closed her book, sat at the Ravenclaw Table, forked some breakfast onto her plate, and began to wolf it down.
Amanda could ignore her dripping hair; others could not.
Hermione Granger, just walking in, saw her: the studious Amanda with hair so wet it still dripped.
Frowning, Hermione strode over, snatched a clean, unused napkin from the Ravenclaw Table, and stood behind Amanda, gently drying her hair.
Still devouring food, Amanda felt the movement behind her and instinctively started to turn.
Hermione murmured, "Don't move. Keep eating; I'll dry it."
Amanda gave a blank nod, murmured a polite "Thank you," and continued shoveling food.
Three and a half minutes later breakfast was gone, yet Hermione hadn't quite finished. Not wanting to lose study time, Amanda reopened the book beside her.
Hermione sighed at the sight but didn't interrupt.
No need to ask—this girl had clearly decided that thoroughly toweling her hair would waste study minutes, so she'd let it air-dry.
How many headaches had she already endured from going out with wet hair?
Remembering her own childhood bout of pain after one such careless night, Hermione worked faster.
It had hurt terribly—an entire day of pain that had only ended after sleep.
After nearly ten minutes Hermione finally finished. Seeing Amanda still immersed, she waited quietly until the page was done before speaking.
"Amanda, your hair's finished."
Hearing her full name snapped Amanda out of her trance. She closed the book, stood, and slung her bag over her shoulder.
Eyes unfocused, she thanked Hermione again. "Thank you. Sorry for the trouble."
"No trouble," Hermione replied, "but please try to dry your hair after showers; it'll save you headaches."
In a flat tone Amanda answered, "It wastes study time. It's fine. I'm not afraid of pain."
Hermione closed her eyes briefly and said nothing more, letting Amanda walk past, nose already in her book.
Amanda... how on earth did you live before? Apart from studying, what else was there in your life?
The more Hermione learned—Amanda's schedule, her self-punishments for the sake of study—the more her heart ached, realizing that Amanda's past must have been something she herself could neither comprehend nor imagine.
Reading while striding out of the Great Hall, a flicker of movement in her peripheral vision yanked her from her page.
Closing the book, she stepped up to Professor McGonagall and greeted her politely. "Good morning, Professor McGonagall."
About to enter for breakfast, the Professor paused. "Good morning, Miss Amanda. Is something the matter?"
Amanda nodded expressionlessly, then bowed deeply without hesitation. "I apologize, Professor McGonagall. I broke the rules last night by wandering the castle after hours. Thank you for giving me the chance to confess; I accept your criticism and punishment."
Watching the girl bow so deeply, hearing the practiced, emotionless words, McGonagall felt a sudden, inexplicable tightness in her chest.
She was used to boisterous Little Lions leaping about, focused yet lively Little Eagles, gentle food-loving Little Badgers, shrewd rule-bending Snakes—but never this: a student who would unhesitatingly lower her head and admit fault, even when the Professor had not intended to pursue it.
She helped Amanda straighten up; the girl met her eyes with calm detachment.
Seeing the Professor's pressed, trembling lips, Amanda's emotionless mind interpreted it as intense anger.
What would the punishment be? Kneeling in the corridor? Standing barefoot in the snow? She tallied methods teachers had used before—brief, uncomfortable, wasting minimal study time. She hoped for the latter.
Under her parents' instructions, teachers had never spared her; that was why neither staff nor students had ever reacted to the scars her self-punishments left.
It was normal. She hadn't been the only one—many students endured the same.
Punishment led to progress, to better grades; of this Amanda was convinced, never questioning whether it was just or even necessary.
Professor McGonagall forced herself to calm down and slowly reached out to cup Amanda's cheek.
When she felt McGonagall's hand move toward her face, Amanda's mind instantly grasped what punishment she was about to receive.
Then another thought popped up: being slapped would probably be witnessed by Senior Penelope… but it was a Professor's penalty, so it should be fine.
Yet the expected blow never came; instead, Amanda felt a gentle, soothing touch from Professor McGonagall on her cheek.
'I'm not angry, Miss Amanda,' Professor McGonagall said, giving her a gentle smile.
'And at Hogwarts, you don't need to be so reserved with us Professors. We are your teachers, but we are also your elders. Tolerating children's mischief is part of an elder's duty, isn't it?'
'To be honest,' McGonagall continued, bending to meet Amanda's eyes, 'I rather look forward to seeing you livelier, more playful—open up, don't over-think. This is Hogwarts, after all.'
With that, McGonagall straightened, gathered the loose hair at Amanda's back, and tied it into a simple braid.
'I have no punishment for you, nor will I deduct any points, but I do have a suggestion.'
'Next time you sneak out at night, go to the eighth floor. There's a tapestry depicting a Troll—great fun.'
She gave Amanda a conspiratorial wink, then strode into the Great Hall, leaving Amanda staring blankly at her retreating figure.
No penalty—and even a suggestion. Amanda's mind ground to a halt, unable to process what McGonagall had just done.
It ran counter to everything she had previously experienced or understood.
She looked away, feeling nothing, yet her vision blurred. Lowering her head to read, the letters swam; through the haze she walked toward the Charms classroom.
Inside, she sat and bent over her book. Two drops of water splashed onto the page, and her sight cleared.
After a moment, Professor Flitwick entered, hugging his books.
At breakfast on the Staff Table, he had heard from McGonagall about Amanda's night-time wanderings—how she pretended not to notice, and how this morning the girl had come to confess.
In all their years together, Flitwick had never seen such a mix of bewilderment, shock, and heartache on his colleague's face.
He felt the same: glad the child had finally let herself roam a little, even if led by others, yet pained by how lowly she rated herself.
'Too earnest by half,' Flitwick thought, setting his books on the desk and walking over with a smile.
'Good morning, Miss Amanda.'
'Good morning, Professor Flitwick.' She rose quickly and bowed politely.
Flitwick waved cheerfully. 'No need for formality. You've already mastered the first-year material. If today's lesson tires you, feel free to rest—just don't disturb anyone.'
Amanda gave a faint nod. 'Yes, thank you, Professor,' she answered mechanically.
Flitwick returned to the front. Students trickled in; the bell would ring soon.
He glanced her way: she was still buried in her book. He sighed.
'Child… why won't you give yourself a break? We Professors don't want our students' lives to hold nothing but study.'
When class began, despite his hint, she neither rested nor dozed.
As always, she watched him unblinkingly, scribbling at lightning speed—an indefatigable machine.
Pride mingled with a dull ache as Flitwick watched her.
At lunch after Charms, most Gryffindors knew Harry had lost fifty points for last night's escapade.
But the loss was small, and the House Cup was clearly Ravenclaw's this year, so no one fretted.
After hearing Harry's edited tale—how Malfoy reported him and got docked too—they laughed at Malfoy's expense.
They were delighted Slytherin House shared the loss; the Cup was out of Slytherin's reach, and that was enough for the Little Lions.
As for Harry's fifty points—so be it; first place was never in doubt.
When Amanda finished lunch and looked up, Harry was chatting cheerfully, showing no sign of distress.
She scanned him: face normal, hands fine, knees not trembling; when he stood to fetch sausages, she saw his feet were unhurt.
Conclusion: only points had been taken.
She closed her book and left the Great Hall, reading as she walked, yet for once not forcing the words into memory.
Instead, her mind replayed the Christmas feast and McGonagall's gentle words that morning.
Those images collided with memories of herself standing in snow, kneeling in corridors, sending throbbing pain through her skull.
Different—utterly different, her mind insisted; Hogwarts and her former school were worlds apart.
The gap was too vast for her emotion-starved mind to analyse.
Since both were schools and she a student, the common denominator was simple: study was enough.
With that, her thoughts snapped shut; words and sentences poured back into her mind.
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