The Great Hall looked unusually gloomy that day. Dense storm clouds rolled across the ceiling, pale purple flashes occasionally shining through them with muffled rumbles, as though the thunder really were coming from high above.
The duelling platform was still as ostentatiously gilded as ever. Beneath the flickering candlelight, it even gave off a strangely seductive glow.
But there was no one on it.
Ron snorted and said under his breath:
"Is the peacock too scared to show up and embarrass himself again?"
Hermione's little ears, hidden beneath her bushy hair, suddenly twitched. She whipped her head around, and her swinging hair gave Malfoy a vicious slap.
The young witch said seriously:
"Ron, we clearly misunderstood the professor in a lot of ways before. Even if he's weak at casting spells, theoretical research can still make someone a master.
"Take Bathilda Bagshot. She doesn't have any dazzling combat achievements, but no one would question her standing as a master."
Ron slowly turned to exchange a look with Harry, raising his eyebrows.
"Mate, Bathi-what?"
Harry looked just as lost.
"Bathilda Bagshot-the author of A History of Magic, the greatest historian of this century. She wrote our textbook." Malfoy rubbed his cheek, staring at Hermione's hair.
He seemed less interested in who Bathilda Bagshot was than in how a swing of someone's hair could pack the force of a slap.
Zhang Xiao watched from the side with a smile, determined not to butt in. You would have to be out of your mind to tell a twelve-year-old fangirl that her idol would inevitably fall from grace.
Just then, the thousand-odd candles floating overhead suddenly went out. The young witches and wizards immediately stopped talking, and quite a few instinctively raised their wands.
Cries of "Lumos!" rang out one after another, and the