Harry Potter opened his eyes and stared somewhat drowsily at the street outside the window.
It was pitch-black outside; it was already close to midnight.
A few hours earlier, after finishing dinner, Harry had dragged a chair over to the window and sat there, looking out... After sitting for a while, he had gradually dozed off, only waking up just now.
He glanced at the mirror beside him and quickly straightened his messy hair and crooked glasses. Then he checked his watch. It was 10:55 p.m.
"He should be here soon!" he muttered to himself, finally turning his gaze to the parchment in his hand.
It was actually a letter, which read:
"Dear Harry,
If it suits you, I shall call upon you at Number 4 Privet Drive this Friday at eleven o'clock at night. I have a matter to attend to afterwards, and I would be greatly honored by your assistance. I shall explain further when we meet. See you Friday.
Yours most faithfully,
Albus Dumbledore"
The letter had arrived three days ago by owl, and Harry already knew every word of it by heart... For the past three days, he had been unable to think about anything else.
From after seven o'clock that evening, he had been sitting by his bedroom window, sneaking a look every few seconds at the two junctions of Privet Drive, waiting for the Headmaster to appear.
Just over a week ago, right after the battle in the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic, Harry Potter had learned an earth-shattering secret from Headmaster Dumbledore... a prophecy concerning him and Voldemort. According to it, one of them would have to die at the hand of the other.
This was also why Professor Dumbledore had not stopped the rumor of "Harry, the Chosen One" from spreading—because, in a sense, it was not entirely untrue.
Ever since returning to his aunt and uncle's house for the summer, Harry had been troubled by this prophecy.
He had not expected that after only a few days back at Number 4 Privet Drive, he would receive this letter.
Harry had been overjoyed. It meant he could leave Privet Drive earlier than expected, and it also meant he could learn more from the Headmaster... So he had been waiting here ever since, even though Professor Albus Dumbledore had not arrived ahead of time.
"He's not going to be late, is he?" Harry muttered to himself.
The minute hand of the clock inched toward twelve, while the hour hand rested on eleven. At that moment, all the streetlights outside suddenly went out!...
Also at eleven o'clock that night, Ron Weasley was busy at Number 93 Diagon Alley—a newly opened shop.
Even though it was late, the place was still bustling, with people coming and going in an endless stream.
Unfortunately, Ron couldn't enjoy the lively atmosphere. He was stuck in the storeroom, working hard hauling boxes.
"Mr. Weasley, do you have any more Self-Writing Quills? The cabinet's empty!" a sweet, girlish voice called from the shop outside.
"Of course we do... I'll have someone bring some right away!" came Fred Weasley's reply—or maybe it was George's; Ron couldn't tell the difference at the moment. "Ron, hurry up and bring a box of quills over!"
"Self-Writing Quills... God knows why these things sell so well!" Ron couldn't help grumbling. "And they're so heavy—this box must weigh at least fifty pounds!"
After struggling to haul the box of quills into the shop and pour them into the cabinet, the exhausted Ron trudged back into the storeroom and dropped onto a wooden crate.
Outside, he heard a child start crying, followed by a mother's flurry of apologies:
"Mr. Weasley... I'm so sorry!"
"It's fine, it's fine... Everyone, step aside a bit!" Fred said cheerfully. "I'll get someone to clean it up right away... George, go and find Ron."
A little over ten seconds later, the storeroom door was flung open.
George Weasley burst in. "Ron, grab a mop and a broom... Some kid made a mess at the front entrance, and you've gotta clean it up!"
"Give me a break!" Ron shot to his feet, looking thoroughly annoyed. "Do you lot think I'm your hired muscle? I haven't had a moment's rest all day!"
"Sorry... but business has been fantastic. Fred and I have barely had a break either..." George tried to explain.
"I'm your own brother!"
"Exactly, you're our own brother!" Fred stepped into the storeroom as well, frowning.
Catching his meaning, George quickly added, "That's why we hired you!"
"We're paying you fifty Galleons a month."
"That's nearly double what an ordinary shop assistant earns."
"If you don't want to keep working here—"
"—then you can leave right now..."
The Weasley twins spoke one after another, showing no mercy.
Ron muttered under his breath, then dragged his tired feet over to grab a mop and went out to clean...
Because of the holidays, St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was even busier than usual.
For Wendell and Monica Granger, this was undoubtedly a dreadful place: all sorts of strange and frighteningly injured patients, eccentric and mysterious Healers, and many wizards who seemed less than friendly...
But they had no choice. Their only daughter had been lying unconscious in this "hospital" for more than a week. They could not possibly leave her here alone, so they had taken time off specifically to stay by her side.
Fortunately, the portraits were willing to help. Although the talking portraits—who could converse freely and even seemed to possess thoughts of their own—had given the Grangers quite a scare at first, they had to admit the portraits were far friendlier than most wizards.
The Spell Damage Ward on the fifth floor and the tea room on the sixth floor were the only parts of the hospital they dared enter. They stayed well away from the other areas, afraid that something terrible might happen if they went too close...
At the moment, they were in the tea room, eating sandwiches and drinking a beverage with a rather peculiar taste.
"Miss Granger has awakened!" A witch with a "wand and bones cross" emblem on her chest walked over to inform the Grangers.
"Oh... thank God!" Mr. Granger traced the sign of the cross with his fingers. "Darling, let's hurry..."
The couple hurried up to the fifth floor—
On the bed, Hermione Granger had already opened her eyes. She still looked very weak and had clearly lost weight.
"Mum..." She burrowed into her mother's arms, tears streaming down her face. "I was so scared... I was so scared..."
"It's all right now, dear!" Mrs. Monica Granger said gently, blinking back her own tears.
Mr. Granger, having finished speaking with the witch from earlier, walked over to the bed as well.
"They said you've made a full recovery, aside from being a bit weak..." He sounded greatly relieved. "Don't worry, you'll be going home soon!"
He then bowed deeply to the portrait above the bed, where a witch with long silver curls was depicted. "Thank you for your help, Madam!"
The witch in the portrait merely inclined her head slightly before vanishing from sight.
But the inscription beneath the portrait remained:
"Dilys Derwent: Chief Healer at St. Mungo's (1722–1741), Headmistress of Hogwarts Wizarding School (1741–1768)."