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"What's wrong, Ron?"
A little student with messy hair hurried over, her arms weighed down by a towering stack of parchment—all first-year Defense Against the Dark Arts homework.
"Hermione, lend me your Transfiguration paper—no, let me 'learn' from it. I'm afraid I won't be able to finish mine today..." Ron pleaded helplessly.
"But you were just working on it, weren't you?" Hermione leaned over to inspect his progress.
The parchment in front of Ron was a disaster—smeared with bits of food and ink, the saliva mixing it all into a dark, shapeless blotch.
"Ugh—Ron, that's disgusting!" Hermione recoiled, hugging her homework closer with her left arm while drawing her wand with her right.
"Tergeo!"
The spell worked instantly, clearing away the debris and moisture. However, the ink stains had already seeped deep into the parchment, leaving behind an ugly mess.
If Ron dared to submit this to the ever-strict Professor McGonagall, he'd be done for.
"Hermione, look—my homework is ruined." Ron sighed guiltily. "It's late, and if you don't let me borrow yours, I'll never finish in time."
"If I don't finish, I can't turn it in. If I can't turn it in, Professor McGonagall will dock points. If she docks points, Gryffindor's chances of winning the House Cup will plummet. See? Your homework is crucial to our victory!"
Ron rattled off his argument in one breath, convinced of its brilliance, and looked at Hermione expectantly.
"No!" Hermione declared, slamming her thick pile of parchment onto the table. She puffed up her chest, proudly displaying the devil wings badge pinned to her robes. "I'm a teaching assistant now! I have to set an example for the first-years. I can't allow slackers like you to take advantage of others!"
Ron's face fell.
"Harry, be fair," he turned desperately to his best friend, who had been quietly enjoying the spectacle from the next seat. "Don't you think Hermione should lend us her homework for the sake of Gryffindor?"
Harry smirked as he slipped a diary into his bag. "Actually, I don't need to borrow Hermione's homework..." He sounded entirely too pleased with himself. "I've already finished mine. Want to 'learn' from it, Ron?"
"WHAT?!"
Ron shot up so fast he nearly knocked over his chair. His outburst was loud enough to turn every head in the common room. A few younger students even saluted him in amusement.
Harry hurriedly sent apologetic glances around before yanking Ron back into his seat.
"Ron, why are you making such a fuss?" he hissed. "Can't I finish my own homework for once?"
"No, mate, something's wrong here." Ron calmed slightly, but his voice was still low and suspicious. "I've been working on this paper nonstop—I didn't even go to eat! And I'm only halfway through!"
"But you, on the other hand, ran all the way down from the eighth floor to the Great Hall for dinner, then climbed back up again. That alone took you nearly an hour. And somehow, in that time, you managed to finish your entire Transfiguration paper? That's not like you!"
Harry's expression darkened. "Just tell me whether you want to see it or not!"
Ron didn't hesitate. "Of course, I do! Only an idiot wouldn't!" He snatched the parchment from Harry's hands. "Since Hermione won't lend me hers, I'll just use yours."
Ignoring Harry's annoyed glare, Ron got to work, applying his unique "borrowing" techniques—changing the order of sentences, swapping words, flipping passive voice to active…
But after copying about a third of it, he paused. Something felt off.
"Harry," Ron whispered, nudging his friend's arm, his eyes scanning the paper with suspicion. "Did you really write this yourself?"
"Of course, I did," Harry replied a little too quickly, glancing at his bag.
Ron's eyes narrowed. "Mate, I know you. This paper is too good. Are you sure you didn't copy Hermione's? Actually… this might be even better than hers!"
Harry shifted uneasily but said nothing. He wasn't about to tell Ron about the enchanted diary in his bag—the one that whispered solutions to his every problem, answering his questions with an unsettling precision…
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Meanwhile, in the Hogwarts main tower, another problem was unfolding.
Professor Dracula, responsible for setting the Defense Against the Dark Arts final exam, had chosen to deal with it in the most efficient way possible—by avoiding it entirely.
Lying on a grand sofa in the headmaster's office, he idly tossed a brand-new Sorting Hat into the air, catching it as it fell.
At first, the hat protested loudly, yelping each time it was flung upward. But as time passed, it either lost consciousness or simply resigned itself to its fate, tumbling silently through the air.
Dumbledore, seated at his desk, finally had enough. Adjusting his half-moon glasses, he peered over them at the vampire lounging before him.
"Professor Dracula, you've been lying there all afternoon," he remarked. "If you spent half as much effort writing your exam as you did tormenting that poor hat, your test papers would have been ready long ago."
Dracula sighed dramatically.
"I would rather waste time here than come up with questions," he muttered, lazily tossing the Sorting Hat back onto its stool. He stretched, gazing absentmindedly at the ceiling. "I have to balance the study material, maintain a reasonable difficulty level, and make sure it all aligns with the curriculum… Ugh, it's such a hassle! Anyone who enjoys this nonsense can do it instead."
He waved a dismissive hand. "Snape's always whining about wanting my job—why not let him set the exam?"
"Severus wants to teach the subject, not write your exams for you," Dumbledore pointed out. "I suggest you review last year's test format and base your questions on the material covered this term."
"Why can't I just use last year's questions?" Dracula grumbled.
"Because students can find old exams and memorize the answers," Dumbledore replied. "That would be unfair to those who haven't seen them before."
Dracula groaned, flopping back dramatically onto the sofa. The golden armrest cracked under his weight.
"That settles it—I need an assistant! I'm not doing another exam without one!"