Summer's End

August 31st.

Just yesterday, the Ministry of Magic issued Twenty-Second Educational Decree, pushing the situation back into the plot of the original story and reminding Skylar that summer vacation was coming to an end.

The contents of Twenty-Second Educational Decree, published in today's Daily Prophet, state that if the current headmaster of Hogwarts is unable to provide a candidate for a teaching position, the Ministry of Magic has the right to nominate a suitable candidate.

The time has come to today.

The morning sunlight streamed through the French windows of the Flower Dew Cottage, illuminating the neatly arranged, exquisite dishes on the dining table. The air was filled with the aroma of freshly baked buttered bread and bacon. Phoebe gracefully served a cup of freshly brewed coffee and sat opposite Skylar, watching him gently as he enjoyed the breakfast she had prepared.

Just as Skylar was cutting a fluffy fried egg with his knife and fork, an owl gently landed on the windowsill, bringing a letter bearing the Hogwarts crest.

Phoebe stood up, gracefully took the envelope, and handed it to Skylar with a slight smile, "Looks like it's your new school year notice."

Skylar took the envelope, skillfully tore it open, and the contents were exactly as expected. The book list included two new books— Miranda Goshak's * the Standard Book of Spells, Level 5* and Will Slinka's * Defensive Magical Theory *. In addition, there was a formal Prefect's notice and a gleaming gold and red Prefect Badge.

Phoebe leaned forward, looking at the badge, a hint of appreciation flashing in her blue eyes. "Congratulations, Prefect." She smiled, lightly tapping the lion-snake pattern on the badge with her finger. "But this shouldn't be much of a challenge for you, right?"

Skylar's lips curled into a slight smile. He twirled the badge in his palm and chuckled softly, "Indeed, it's just another identity."

At the same time, he received a summary of intelligence from the Sleeping Dragon Society. The other Prefect of Slytherin House was Daphne Greengrass, the Prefect of Ravenclaw House were Anthony Goldstein and Morrie MacDougal, and the Prefect of Hufflepuff House were Ernie Macmillan and Susan Bones.

Although the Gryffindor Prefect have not yet been chosen, based on the original story, it is highly likely that it will be the same group of people— Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger.

Skylar smiled – of the eight Prefect, three were his Prefect, making up half of them if he included himself. Coincidentally, the other half were people who had joined Dumbledore's Army in the original story.

It seems the next semester will be quite interesting—it might be the first clash Sleeping Dragon Society and Dumbledore's Army at the student level.

In addition, Skylar had heard that this year's student Head Boy would be Cedric Diggory of Hufflepuff, which didn't surprise Skylar at all, since Cedric was widely regarded as the best among the seventh graders.

Skylar pondered for a moment, folded the letter and placed it on the table. He picked up a quill pen, spread out a new sheet of parchment, and wrote a short but sincere congratulatory letter— Cedric was someone he knew, and Skylar felt it necessary to send him his congratulations.

Phoebe rested her chin on her hand, watching Skylar's flowing calligraphy, and couldn't help but smile. She picked up her coffee cup, took a small sip, and said softly, "You really are a considerate person, Skylar."

After finishing his letter, Skylar looked up at her, a casual smile playing on his lips, "It's just reciprocity; it's always good to maintain friendly relations."

Phoebe chuckled softly, offering no rebuttal; her blue eyes shone even brighter in the morning light.

On the same day, at 12 Grimmauld Place, in the morning.

Harry stood on the chair, arms outstretched, frowning as he cleaned Hedwig's excrement from the top of the wardrobe. The white feathers mixed with dried grime made him mutter, "Hedwig should have cleaned it herself..."

Just as he was struggling to reach the corner, the door was pushed open, and Ron walked in excitedly, holding two letters from Hogwarts.

"The email's here!" Ron waved the envelope in his hand, a smile of excitement on his face.

Harry wiped his hands, jumped off the chair, took his letter, and skillfully tore open the envelope. His gaze quickly swept over the book list; they were all ordinary textbooks, nothing special. However, just as he was about to casually put the letter down, he caught a glimpse of Ron frozen in place.

Ron stood there motionless, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes fixed on the letter in his hand. Harry turned his head in confusion, about to ask a question, when he saw the shiny red and gold badge slip out of the envelope and fall into Ron's palm.

Gryffindor Prefect.

For a moment, the air in the room seemed to freeze.

Harry blinked, his heart clenching as if struck by something. His gaze involuntarily locked onto the badge, his heart pounding faster.

Ron, the Prefect?

He felt an indescribable resentment churning in his chest, almost suffocating him. He had done so much—risked his life to fight Voldemort, participated in the Triwizard Tournament, and endured countless life-or-death battles... and yet the position of Prefect had fallen to Ron?

He had initially believed this identity would be his; after all, his grades were respectable, and his combat experience was unparalleled. He considered himself far superior to Ron, yet he had lost to his friend?

Harry forced a smile, suppressing his disappointment, and patted Ron on the shoulder. "Uh... congratulations." His voice was a little hoarse.

Ron still stared at the badge in disbelief, muttering, "I... I'm Prefect?" His ears turned red, and a look of surprise and joy appeared on his face.

Harry didn't say anything more, simply placing his envelope on the table and turning to walk to the window. His gaze drifted to the town under the night sky, the pent-up emotions in his heart lingering.

Ron, upon learning that he had become Prefect, was not as happy as Harry had imagined.

Upon learning that he had become Prefect, Ron excitedly ran downstairs, still holding the Prefect Badge he had just received, his face beaming with barely suppressed excitement.

He had always lived in the shadow of his brothers, and now that he finally had his own glory, he couldn't wait to receive a gift befitting his status as Prefect —a Broomstick of his own.

"Mom!" he rushed into the kitchen, his voice brimming with excitement, "Could I get a new broom? Even if it's not a high-end model, it should at least be better than those old, broken brooms at school, right?"

Mrs. Weasley, who was busy cooking, paused, a hint of hesitation flashing across her face. Then she sighed softly and said in a low voice, "Ron... we really have no other choice right now."

Ron's smile froze. "But—"

"Your father was just fired by the Ministry of Magic," Mrs. Weasley, looking up with a hint of weariness and helplessness in her voice. "They also made him pay an exorbitant fine, and all our savings have been used to pay off debts. Even the valuables in the house... have been almost all sold off."

Ron was stunned.

"Your dad's got a low-level clerical job in Diagon Alley now, the pay's pitiful, he gets scorned every day, and he's barely making ends meet." Her voice trembled slightly, her eyes flickering, as if she didn't want her child to see her vulnerability. "We've borrowed money from a lot of relatives... Ron, do you understand? Now is not the time to buy brooms."

Ron's face flushed red, a hint of resentment flashing in his eyes. His gaze fell on the Prefect Badge on the table, his fists clenched, and he gritted his teeth, muttering, "Then why should I be Prefect? What's the point of having this if I can't even afford a broom?"

"Ronald Weasley!" Mrs. Weasley glared at her son. "Do you know how much your father has sacrificed for this family? How dare you complain here?"

Ron was so angry that his face turned pale. He clenched his fists, stomped his foot hard, and turned to go upstairs.

"Ron, don't do this..." Hermione's voice suddenly broke in. She had been standing in the doorway, holding her Prefect Badge, her face full of conflict and unease.

Ron stopped and turned sharply to look at her.

Hermione pursed her lips and cautiously began, "I... I'm Prefect too."

Ron was taken aback, then his expression turned even more grim. He looked down at the badge in his hand and suddenly realized that it wasn't something to be happy about at all.

Hermione hesitated for a moment, then mustered her courage and stepped forward, her voice gentle yet firm. "Ron, I know you've always wanted your own broom... If you really need one, I can—"

"Shut up!" Ron's roar interrupted her, and Hermione jumped back in fright.

"What do you mean? You're going to give me charity?!" Ron's face flushed red, his eyes filled with anger and humiliation. "Do you think you're so great? That you feel sorry for me and are taking pity on me out of compassion?!"

"No! I just—" Hermione tried to explain anxiously, but Ron wouldn't listen.

"I don't need your money! Who do you think you are?!" Ron roared, grabbing the badge from the table, stuffing it into his pocket, turning and rushing upstairs, slamming the door shut.

Hermione stood there, pale-faced, her lips trembling slightly.

Mrs. Weasley looked at her with pity, sighed, patted her shoulder, and whispered, "Don't worry about him, child. He's just too proud."

Hermione bit her lip, lowered her head, feeling both wronged and sad. She just wanted to help, why did it turn out like this...?

Upstairs in his room, Ron nestled in bed, burying his face in the pillow, his heart filled with shame, anger, and self-reproach. He wasn't unaware that Hermione meant well, but the feeling of being pitied was more unbearable than anything else. He didn't want pity; he just wanted to be on the same starting line as everyone else.

But reality cruelly told him that he could never be like everyone else.

That night, in the room, Ron fell asleep without eating dinner, filled with resentment. Harry, on the other bed, tossed and turned, unable to sleep.

He stared at the ceiling, his mind replaying everything that had happened in the past few weeks: his humiliating appearance in the Triwizard Tournament, Voldemort's resurrection, the life-or-death crisis he faced in the tournament, the trial at Wizengamot, and that glaring fine...

Most importantly, the only two mementos his father left him are now lost— the Invisibility Cloak is gone, and the Marauder's Map has been handed over, with Professor Moody showing no intention of returning it.

He felt as if he had been stripped of everything; the things that once gave him a sense of belonging in the magical world were slowly slipping away from him.

He finally understood that in the magical world, strength ultimately reigns supreme.

No matter how much he had done, no matter what hardships he had endured, in the end, he didn't even get a Prefect seat. His hands gripped the sheets tightly, his knuckles turning white.

He needs power. Real power.

Just then, a sharp, burning pain shot through the scar on his forehead, as if a red-hot blade had pierced his skin and reached deep into his mind.

Harry jolted awake, clutching his forehead as cold sweat broke out. In the darkness, his breathing was rapid and heavy.

He vaguely felt a voice in his head telling him that he had to become stronger.

That same evening, the scene returns to Skylar.

Skylar frowned deeply as he looked at the urgent intelligence sent by Thousand Charms.

Just an hour earlier, Sturgis Podmore attempted to break into the Department of Mysteries but was discovered and arrested on the spot by Ministry of Magic guards.

Something's very wrong with this.

In this world, Voldemort no longer needs the Prophecy Crystal Ball of the Department of Mysteries. Moreover, Lucius Malfoy, who was responsible for casting the Imperius Curse Podmore in the original story, is now incapable of doing so.

So, who exactly cast the Imperius Curse on Podmore? More importantly, what is the true target of the mastermind—what within the Department of Mysteries is worth the risk?