Waking up in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts was something I'd prepared for. Not because I was prone to recklessness—though, fair—but because it always seemed like the place you ended up when you tried to do something mildly heroic, wildly idiotic, or just breathed too loud near a magical artifact.
This time, I woke up with the scent of disinfectant, burnt feathers, and something vaguely citrusy—probably the lingering aura of Dumbledore's lemon-scented stress.
The ceiling was annoyingly bright.
I turned my head.
Ron was snoring in a chair with his head tilted back at a dangerous angle, mouth wide open like a baby hippogriff learning to yawn. Hermione was sitting beside me with a book in her lap—but her eyes weren't on the page.
They were on me.
And they were not pleased.
"Good morning, sunshine," I croaked.
"You set a professor on fire," she whispered furiously.
I blinked. "Allegedly."
Hermione leaned in. "There are scorch marks on your coat."
I glanced down at the blackened hem and casually shrugged. "A fashion statement. All the rage in Paris."
"Harry told me what happened. He said you launched furniture through enchanted fire."
"Oh, so now I'm being furniture-shamed?" I said. "I suppose next you'll criticize my taste in throw pillows."
"You weaponized them."
"Look, everything's a weapon if you believe in yourself."
She stared. Long. Slow. Like she was calculating how many legal documents she'd need to fill out just to emotionally distance herself from this conversation.
"Ron thinks you're possessed," she finally muttered.
I gestured vaguely toward his slumped body. "He also thinks toothpaste is spicy. I'm not losing sleep over it."
Hermione made a sound that could've been a sigh, a growl, or both.
Her voice softened. "Sky… what really happened? Why did Voldemort—why did he scream like that?"
I paused.
Then looked her dead in the eye.
"I insulted his skincare routine."
Her face went absolutely blank.
"Okay, look. I want to tell you. I swear. But I cannot yet." I said as I pulled a book from under my pillow.
Yes, more storage shenanigans.
"Where did you.. You know what? Never mind." Hermione said while feeling a headache coming on.
I handed her the book.
"Warding the Self: A Scholar's Approach to Memory Protection" by Cassian Crowe
"Read this from cover to cover. If you learn this, I will tell you everything." I said with a sincere expression
Probably the first time I have ever shown one.
Hermione blinked.
Then blinked again.
Her mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. It was as if her brain had hit a magical error screen. She stared at me with an expression halfway between alarm and awe, like she'd just discovered I had a second head—or a heart.
"You're being serious," she whispered. Not a question. A dawning realization.
I gave a slow, small nod.
Hermione sat back slightly in the chair, as if the emotional whiplash had physically rocked her. Her brows furrowed, and she clutched the book like it was suddenly the most important object in the world.
"Okay," she said quietly. "I'll read it. All of it." She looked down at the book again, then back at me. Her grip tightened. "No. Actually—I'll do better than that. I'll learn it. You're serious, so I will be too."
Her voice wasn't confident or commanding. Just resolute.
"You know," I added thoughtfully, "he really does look like a boot that got left in a campfire."
"Sky."
"Yes?"
"Did you inhale fire fumes?"
"Very possibly. But in my defense, they were emotionally charged fire fumes."
"That's not a real thing."
"Tell that to my eyebrows."
Before she could continue pressing—or toss the book at my head—a stern voice echoed through the wing.
"Miss Granger," said Madam Pomfrey, marching over with a clipboard and the authority of someone who'd dealt with students made entirely of bees and still didn't have time for nonsense. "Out. He needs rest."
Hermione stood slowly. She glanced at me one last time. Her mouth twitched like she wanted to say something else. Or slap me. Possibly both.
"I'll be back," she warned.
"Bring snacks," I said.
"And sanity."
"No promises."
She left.
Pomfrey gave me a look that could sterilize steel.
"Do you feel dizzy?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Any ringing in your ears?"
"Constantly. Especially around Gryffindor first-years."
"Sharp pain?"
"Only when I reflect on my life choices."
She stared for a long moment.
"Physically," she said with forced patience.
"Oh. No."
She jotted something down furiously and stalked off.
And just like that, I was alone.
For maybe seven seconds.
Then a new presence walked into the room like a thunderclap wrapped in silk.
Dumbledore.
He didn't speak at first. Just stood at the end of my bed, hands clasped behind his back, robes swishing faintly with some inner breeze I suspected he conjured purely for dramatic flair.
"Good morning, Professor," I said cheerfully. "Lovely weather for secrets and subtle existential threats."
"Sky," he began slowly, "we need to talk about—"
"Secrecy," I interrupted.
He blinked.
"What?"
"Let's not tell anyone," I said, propping myself up on my elbows. "About the mirror. About the Stone. About the Voldemort-screaming-like-a-failing-kettle situation. Let the rumors do the work. Far more efficient. Cleaner too."
He stared.
Mouth slightly open.
It was, perhaps, the first time I had ever seen Albus Dumbledore flummoxed.
"That was… precisely what I intended to suggest," he admitted, slowly.
"See? Great minds. Or at least one great mind and one chaotic neutral mind held together by sarcasm and duct tape."
He exhaled.
It wasn't a sigh.
It was a resignation.
"I had prepared a full speech," he muttered.
"Oh, give it to me anyway. I'll rate it out of ten and provide written feedback."
He gave me a look. One part fond exasperation, one part migraine.
"Sky. This isn't a game."
"I'm aware," I said, lying back on the pillow. "But that doesn't mean I can't play it better than anyone else."
Dumbledore rubbed his temple. "You are going to be the death of me."
"Statistically, I feel like that's going to be Voldemort. Or your lemon drop consumption."
"I haven't even had a lemon drop today."
"Well that explains the mood."
He looked like he wanted to either laugh or send me to Azkaban.
"You'll keep quiet, then?" he asked finally.
"Already planned on it. Though I may start a rumor that I tamed a basilisk using interpretive dance."
He gave a long, long sigh.
"Fine," he said. "Keep it subtle."
"I'm always subtle," I said.
"You launched flaming shelves at a professor."
"IKEA shelves," I corrected automatically. "Let's not disrespect Swedish craftsmanship."
"Subtlety is subjective."
He turned to leave, then paused.
"For what it's worth," he said, looking over his shoulder, "thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," I murmured. "We're still in Year One."
He walked off—and immediately tripped over the leg of a stool that hadn't been there ten seconds ago.
There was a muffled curse, the swish of robes, and the dull thud of a headmaster colliding with the floor in a very dignified heap.
"Figures," I murmured, deadpan.
Dumbledore, without rising, replied, "One day, Mr. Kingston, your mouth will get you hexed into next week."
"Possibly," I called back. "But at least I'll have entertaining company."
As I was once again alone I stared at the ceiling.
Then tried to summon tea through sheer willpower.
Nothing happened.
Figures.