Herman looked at Harry and asked tentatively, " Professor Snape knew you went off-campus... and he really didn't say anything?"
Harry thought for a moment, then replied seriously, "Say good evening and tell me to go back to the castle early."
Herman confirmed his suspicions and asked again, " Professor Snape has always been very kind to you, you should know that, right?"
Harry's tone remained unchanged, carrying a certainty that she had already considered the issue. "Yes, I know."
As expected, this version of Harry has normal intelligence, even a bit precocious, and must have realized that not everyone is Draco.
Herman pretended not to know anything and continued to ask, "Why? What's your family's relationship with him?"
Harry paused for a few seconds, as if considering whether she should speak, before finally saying, "He was a friend of my mother's, probably a very good friend. I met him when I was little, but he and my godfather had a very bad relationship, and apart from a few occasional meetings, I never saw him again."
Hearing this answer, Herman asked again, "Then why are you so cold towards him? Even colder than towards others?"
Although Harry usually kept a distance from others, she still maintained basic politeness towards the professors. Herman noticed that whenever Harley faced Snape, there was an extra layer of sharpness in her indifference, like erect thorns.
Harry was silent for a moment, the firelight from the fireplace flickering on her face. Her voice lowered, as if it were coming from somewhere untouchable:
"Because he was Death Eaters. He always was until Voldemort disappeared."
Herman was momentarily at a loss for words, but Harry's gaze had already drifted elsewhere, as if she no longer considered him the one she was talking to, but rather was speaking to herself as she gazed at the flickering flames in the fireplace:
"He was Voldemort's henchman... one of the people who killed my parents. I know he was good to me, I know he didn't do those things... but I can't help hating him. I can't help thinking about how every single one of Voldemort's followers was involved in my parents' death."
Her voice grew softer and softer until the last sentence was almost a whisper, as if she had been holding back her words for too long and had finally found a corner to say them.
Herman looked at her profile. The face that had always maintained a distance was now softened by the flames, as if something hard was slowly cracking open, revealing emotions—sadness, hatred, and pity.
He instinctively stood up and gently embraced her.
Harry's movements froze for a moment, like the instinctive tension a cat feels when touched by a stranger.
But Herman could feel the stiff lines on her shoulders slowly relax within seconds. She didn't push him away, nor did she say anything; she just held him quietly.
Then, the next second, her knee rose up and struck Herman squarely in a vital spot.
Herman staggered back a few steps as if his body had been frozen in time, gasped in pain, jumped up and down in place, and could barely speak.
Harry had already stood up, straightened the hem of her school uniform, and her tone returned to its usual indifferent tone. "Alright, my time to take advantage is over. I'm going back to sleep."
She finished speaking and walked steadily down the corridor. Herman, clutching the spot where she had been bumped, forced a smile, "Goodnight."
Harry didn't turn around, she just raised her hand slightly, and then her figure disappeared around the corner of the corridor.
Where Herman couldn't see, Harry opened her mouth as if to say goodnight as well.
Herman was left alone in the common room again. The flames in the fireplace were still flickering. He leaned back in his chair for a while, and only after the pain subsided did he stand up and walk towards the dormitory.
When Herman woke up the next morning, the discomfort had not completely subsided.
He rolled over and felt a dull, aching pain in a certain spot, as if someone had kneed him squarely, leaving a hidden injury.
He lay on the bed staring at the ceiling for a while, carefully considering his current situation. He realized that this was something he couldn't delay or tough out; he needed to go to the Hospital Wing.
I can bear the burning sensation on my arm, but I can't stand it if something goes wrong here.
Moreover, he had no intention of applying any Potions potions to it; if it were to burst into flames, the scene would be unimaginable.
Don't let your tools break down before you've even had a chance to enjoy them. There's no such thing as a quick and evil magic trick in the Wizarding World that requires self-castration to master a skill. Otherwise, Voldemort would have already mastered it, Dumbledore or Grindelwald would probably have had someone else to learn it from. Thinking about it this way, their power isn't so hard to understand. It's an equivalent exchange, isn't it? The law of alchemy.
He rolled out of bed much slower than usual, carefully moving his legs to the edge of the bed, then carefully standing up, and only getting dressed after confirming that there was no major problem.
Herman didn't plan to ask anyone to go to the Hospital Wing with him, such as Draco and Harry. After all, Draco would definitely keep asking him, "Where do you feel unwell?" He really didn't know how to explain himself without being seen as a perverted little creep.
Britain law punishes such matters quite severely, so he felt he shouldn't take the risk.
Fortunately, the common room was not crowded on Sunday morning. Draco and Harry were still in bed, and the hallway was quiet.
He slipped out of the Slytherin Common Room, hugging the wall, his steps lighter than usual, trying to avoid his trousers rubbing against anything that shouldn't be rubbing.
Once they reached the ground floor of the castle, Herman realized something was amiss.
The corridor was much quieter than he had expected. Logically, even if most people slept in on a Sunday morning, there should have been at least a few hundred energetic young wizards running around the castle.
For people like George and Fred, this should be the perfect time for them to "renovate" the castle, since Filch should be going to bed after patrolling all night.
But along the way, Herman only saw a few scattered students, and each of them was in a hurry, looking around nervously, as if they were worried that a Troll would jump out from around some corner and hit them with a stick.
Herman became a little nervous in the atmosphere and subconsciously quickened his pace.
Fortunately, he had taken Ron to the Hospital Wing just yesterday, so he remembered the way very well and arrived without taking any detours.
Madam Pomfrey was preparing a potion, holding a slender glass bottle in her hand, and was dripping some kind of light blue liquid into it.
When she saw Herman walk in, she first looked him up and down to make sure he was unharmed, then asked curiously, "Is something wrong? What happened to Ron's teeth again?"