Hogwarts: Even Voldemort Can't Stop Me From Studying

”After the banquet ended, he left that very night.”

Professor McGonagall’s eyes inadvertently showed a trace of concern, as she looked at Vid and said:

”I don’t ask, nor do I know exactly where he went or what he did... but you should know that this must remain confidential.”

Her voice lowered further: ”Do not tell anyone else, not even your friends, or... even those who seem like they should know.”

Vid silently nodded.

”Go on.”

Professor McGonagall forced a smile and said: ”I should go teach. If you have any questions about Transfiguration, ask next time.”

”Alright, I will come find you another day, Professor.”

Vid picked up the package and turned to leave the room.

As he reached the door, he turned around for one last glance.

Professor McGonagall was seated at the table, supporting her head with one hand, the sunlight from the window illuminating her face, accentuating the shadows beneath her eyes.

Vid gently closed the door behind him.

He returned to his dormitory and unwrapped the brown paper package to find two items inside.

One was gleaming gold, with a delicately crafted solid gold frame encompassing the hourglass, where the originally sparkling gold sand had turned a grayish-white, quietly settled at the bottom of the hourglass.

The other was a letter.

Vid unfolded the letter, which bore Dumbledore’s signature slender handwriting:

[Dear Vid:

I initially planned to talk with you about the Time Turner the day after school started, but I received a message requiring urgent departure, leaving only this letter to explain, hoping you understand this decision.

As you mentioned earlier, indeed in Kosovo, some are attempting dangerous experiments. I’ve found mere clues but haven’t yet located Reck and his collaborators.

However, I can confirm their research has touched upon some ancient things, which should never be tampered with by anyone.

Also, I presume you’ve noticed their reckless audacity regarding the mysterious and formidable forces of time.

This misuse of time magic is echoing unexpectedly across broader planes.

Recently, the Ministry of Magic’s Department of Mysteries has detected increasing anomalies, with some turners spinning with no warning, unspeakables hearing sounds or seeing images not belonging to this current time.

This is not collective hallucination; it’s time itself, disturbed excessively, beginning to produce ”echoes.”

Using a Time Turner under these conditions, the outcomes are unpredictable—

You might unexpectedly meet your past self; or end up years ahead after one turn, or even stumble upon an isolated island of time, unable to return.

Hence, I must decide: you can no longer use the Time Turner.

Yet, I leave you this now-defunct turner.

Although ceased, it isn’t entirely severed from its connection with time.

Should you notice any alteration one day—even a grain of sand changing color—it surely signals drastic shifting in Kosovo.

At that moment, decide how to act; I trust in your judgment.

I don’t need you to be a hero, child; know that self-preservation is your foremost task, then contemplate possible actions.

The letter ends here, leaving me regretful about one thing.

I promised to teach you Memory Magic.

I eagerly awaited to share those profound thoughts on memory with you and witness possible splendid transformations at your hands.

Yet apparently, fulfilling this promise now is unfeasible.

Nevertheless, I found you an excellent instructor, perhaps not expressive but with meticulous and practical understanding far surpassing my own in Memory Magic.

His demands are stringent, but I believe you can distinguish between deliberate difficulty and diligent teaching, understanding his demeanor while genuinely acquiring beneficial knowledge.

You surely guessed it, he is Professor Severus Snape.

Every Wednesday night at eight, Magic Potion Class office, don’t forget to visit him.]

The letter ends with the familiar ”Albus Dumbledore.”

...

Percy stood at the archive room entrance, handing the newly signed permission slip to Filch.

The administrator took it, bringing it close, squinting to read each word slowly.

He read so leisurely—so much so that the smile on Percy’s face began to stiffen.

Skinny Mrs. Loris squatted by her master’s feet, her tail moving slowly, her bulbous eyes fixated on Percy, hinting a bit of hostility.

”Hmm.”

Filch finally finished reading, returning the permission slip to Percy, muttering vaguely.

Percy guessed he must be grumbling about increased workload, maintaining a respectable smile despite growing impatience within.

Filch then removed a densely packed bundle of keys from his waist, fingers slowly fiddling while muttering:

”Not this one... nor this... ah, this is the secret passage entrance key...”

Percy waited as patiently as possible, his smile frozen on his face.

Fuming internally, he thought: Does this old coot know my current status? When opportunity permits, I will surely see to removing you from school!

Recalling past incidents in lower years when this old man stopped him in corridors scolding over mud on his shoes;

and later even as Prefect, being commanded by Filch—clearly just a magic-less Dud...

Rage swelled within Percy like a clawed beast.

Just as he contemplated saying something, he heard the man before him exclaim: ”Ah, found it.”

Filch held a hefty, dark key, limping down the corridor, with Percy hurriedly following.

They descended the stairs, walls cold and damp, corners even frost-covered.

Passing through corridor after corridor, dust-covered windows, finally stopping before a heavy door.

The door bore no sign but on the lintel, a line nearly worn by time:

Archive Room · Entry prohibited without permission.

Filch thrust the key into the keyhole, struggling to turn the brass lock.

The door creaked open with a musty, mildewy air rushing out.

Percy covered his nose, squinting inside.

The archive room was larger than imagined—or rather, messier.

Rows of age-worn wooden shelves stretched from the entrance into shadowy depths, burdened with assorted document boxes, scattered parchment scrolls, bundled ledgers, and even stacks of paper strewn on the floor.

In corners lay dust-coated trunks, tossed with bald quill pens.

The room resembled a centuries-untouched warehouse rather than a Magic School archive.

”Here it is.”

Filch stood at the entrance, slowly speaking: ”You may take your time here, Mr. Weasley.”