Chapter 375

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Night, the moon came out from behind the horizon, flooding everything with its rays. Rare clouds covered the starry sky, and I, left in black trousers, shirt and vest, sat on the windowsill, looking into the endless distance of space, and only mad… It was just the wildest snoring of the Weasley, shamelessly spoiling the atmosphere. Still, I didn't use any spells — occlumency allowed me to ward off unwanted stimuli, passing them on deaf ears. I couldn't sleep, and the reason was simple — I was tormented by the question: "Why didn't Skeeter leave the castle?"

According to the remaining mark on her, which should only dissipate in about a day, the same applies to the Slytherins, I followed the movements of the damn reporter around the castle, mentally superimposing her location on the memorized three-dimensional map.

Is she immortal? Someone has applied Obliviate on her in this castle, and she continues to walk relaxed.

<You're asking me?>

I'm talking to myself in my head.

<So you're asking me after all? Go and find out what she's running around the castle for.>

Come to think of it, you're right.

Jumping off the windowsill, I grabbed my coat from the makeshift hanger by my bed, put it on. On some reflexes, I threw a bag over my shoulder and, conjuring various concealing charms on myself, quickly left the room, followed by the common room, going towards the mark. Once I ran into Professor McGonagall patrolling the corridors, but I went unnoticed. Another time I ran into Filch, who was muttering something to his beloved cat, and again I went unnoticed.

Skeeter's mark led me to a closet on the dungeon level, small but roomy enough to accommodate not only various utensils, but also several people. Leaning against the wall next to the closet door, I mentally turned to Rowena:

Can you check what's going on in there?

Rowena didn't answer, but she moved by a shadow in that direction, and I felt an almost imperceptible outflow of magic. Wanting to start practicing myself in obtaining information through the Architect's ability, I tried, so to speak, to feel what was happening in the closet. It didn't work out right away, and not completely, but there is some effect. Under Rowena's quiet laugh in my head, I began to understand exactly what was going on there — not to see, not to hear, but to understand.

Skeeter was sitting on an upturned bucket and, in the light of a simple Lumos, was reading her own notes in a notebook with great interest. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't understand the contents of the inscriptions.

<Insufficient sensitivity level when working with shadows,> Rowena informed me.

Can you understand?

<Yes. It looks like she was taking notes of everything that happened and carefully writing down all the information she got.>

Does it say anything about who caught her and cleaned up her memory?

<No. The notes end with her escaping from the room where you had the fight.>

Hmm, interesting...

Dropping the bag from my shoulder, I opened it, calling for a couple of newspapers and parchment. Using memory and a weak Diffindo, I cut a message from a newspaper text and placed it on parchment with the charms of Eternal Gluing, walking through the parchment with the energy of hemomancy — in this way, excess magic is removed and becomes neutral, and these charms, like many others, work even after "cleaning." After folding the message several times, I asked Rowena to put it in Skeeter's clothes pocket, and returning the bag to its standard location, behind my back, I went away — there's nothing more for me to do here. If I understand the character of this lady correctly, then most likely, she will act in a very definite way.

"And if she doesn't?"

Also good.

After wandering around the castle for a while and not finding anything interesting or worthy of attention, by dawn, I returned to the door of the hospital wing and sat on the windowsill opposite. Of course, I was fully under the spell of concealment, and Filch, with his cat, who had passed by, didn't pay any attention to me at all.

As I expected, exactly at the time I was accustomed to, Hermione quietly slipped out of the hospital wing in her school uniform and robe.

"Miona," I called out to the girl, pulling off my disguise and jumping off the windowsill.

She stopped and looked at me for a brief moment with a not particularly understanding look, after which she recognized, acknowledged, and smiled.

"Max... I guess the sedatives are still working."

I walked over and hugged her, getting a symmetrical response.

"How are you? I asked, pulling away. "It seemed to me that it was better for you to spend this time in a purely female company."

"I knew you'd think so. I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she nodded confidently. "The threat was inconsequential. I was much more affected by the end goal of the threat and the methods of its implementation."

"A little more, and you'll be looking at things just like me," I shook my head.

" I guess that's to be expected," Hermione shrugged. "But just because I'm fine doesn't mean that everything will stay as it is."

"Absolutely. You don't have to worry about that."

After hugging the girl for a moment, we went to where, in fact, she was going by force of habit — to practice.