The incident with the Hippogriff had a curious effect. While Draco Malfoy, deprived of a dramatic injury, could only complain about being "almost killed," his blustering held little weight. The entire class, Slytherins included, had witnessed his arrogant provocation and Ariana's swift, decisive intervention. She had not only saved him but had also framed the event as a learning experience, a narrative so logical that even Snape couldn't find fault with it. The result was a quiet but significant increase in the school's respect for Ariana's capabilities and a corresponding decrease in Malfoy's social standing.
However, the event did little to mend the quiet, chilly rift between Ariana and Hermione. If anything, it seemed to widen it. Hermione had watched Ariana act with flawless, life-saving precision while she herself had been frozen in panic like the rest of the class. It was another piece of evidence in the mounting case for her own inadequacy compared to her friend, a thought that festered in her proud, overworked mind.
The subtle but persistent cold war between the two girls did not go unnoticed by their Head of House. A few days after the Hippogriff lesson, Professor McGonagall requested Ariana's presence after a Transfiguration class.
"Miss Dumbledore," McGonagall began, her tone unusually gentle as they stood in the now-empty classroom. "I do not make it my business to meddle in the social lives of my students. However, the… frostiness between yourself and Miss Granger has become a matter of some comment. As your Head of House, I am concerned."
Ariana met her professor's gaze calmly. "There is no frostiness on my part, Professor. I hold Hermione in the highest esteem."
"And yet, you do not speak," McGonagall countered. "You were inseparable last year. Now, you might as well be in different houses." She sighed, her expression softening. "A friendship as powerful as yours… it is a rare and valuable thing. It would be a great shame to see it founder on the rocks of youthful pride."
Ariana considered her words. "I offered my friend some logical advice regarding her academic workload. She interpreted it as a criticism of her abilities. The subsequent emotional response is hers to process. I cannot force a reconciliation without her acknowledging the root of the issue."
McGonagall looked at her, seeing once again that unnerving mixture of youthful appearance and ancient wisdom. "Miss Granger is… driven," she said carefully. "She has taken on a schedule that is, by normal standards, impossible." She paused, then seemed to make a decision. "I am telling you this in the strictest confidence, as I believe you have a right to understand the full context. With the Ministry's permission, I have provided Miss Granger with a Time-Turner, to allow her to attend all of her chosen classes."
Ariana's face remained impassive, but her mind instantly processed the information she already knew. A TimeTurner. A device that manipulated the flow of causality. A dangerous, powerful tool in the hands of an over-ambitious teenager. It explained everything: Hermione's ability to be in multiple places at once, and also her increasing exhaustion. She wasn't just mentally tired; she was living through extra hours every single day.
"I see," Ariana said, her voice quiet. "That explains the accelerated rate of her physical and mental fatigue. My initial advice was, therefore, even more pertinent than I realized."
"Indeed," McGonagall agreed. "But she will not hear it, least of all from me. She feels she has something to prove." She looked at Ariana, her eyes full of a teacher's concern. "All I ask is that you do not give up on her, my dear. Pride is a lonely fortress."
"I have no intention of giving up on her," Ariana replied, her voice holding a simple, unshakeable certainty. "I still consider Hermione to be my best friend. The door to our friendship remains open. It is simply up to her to walk through it. I will be there when she does."
The conversation ended on that note of quiet understanding. The weeks passed. Hermione's condition, as Ariana had predicted, worsened. The dark circles under her eyes became permanent fixtures. She was constantly irritable, snapping at Ron and Harry for the smallest things. She grew thinner, her already formidable intellect sharpened to a brittle, anxious edge. She was a candle burning at both ends, and Ariana watched from a distance, her heart aching with a logical, empathetic sorrow, knowing that the inevitable collapse was drawing nearer.
As the end of October approached, bringing with it the familiar festive decorations and the anniversary that always cast a shadow over Harry, Ariana knew she had to act, at least for him. She found him in the common room, looking lost in thought.
"Harry," she said softly.
He looked up, his face brightening at her approach. Despite the chill with Hermione, he and Ariana had maintained their own quiet, steady friendship.
"The feast is tomorrow night," she said. "I assume you have no more desire to attend it this year than you have in the past."
He shook his head. "No. I… I'd rather not."
"Then you will spend the evening with me," she stated, not as a question, but as a fact. "A quiet dinner in the kitchens. We will honor their memory in our own way." She then added, her gaze softening, "Hermione will be invited, of course. It will be her choice whether to join us."
And so, on Halloween night, as the rest of the school gathered for the feast, Ariana and Harry made their way to the kitchens alone. Hermione, when asked, had mumbled an excuse about needing to finish an Arithmancy essay, her pride still too strong to allow her to accept the offered truce.
The meal was quiet, somber, and deeply comforting for Harry. Ariana's presence was a steady, grounding force, allowing him to navigate the painful anniversary without being consumed by it. They returned late, the castle silent and deserted. As they approached the seventh floor, they heard a commotion. A crowd of Gryffindors was clustered around the corridor, their voices a babble of panic and confusion. Pushing their way through, they saw the scene that would once again plunge the school into fear.
The portrait of the Fat Lady, their cheerful, slightly tipsy guardian, was in ruins. The canvas had been slashed viciously, great rents torn through it, and the Fat Lady herself was gone, having fled in terror to another painting.
Standing there, his face pale and his expression grimmer than anyone had ever seen it, was Albus Dumbledore. He examined the deep, powerful cuts in the canvas.
"We need to find her," he said to the other professors who had gathered. "All of you, search the castle. Check every painting."
Then he turned to the terrified Gryffindors. His gaze was hard as stone. "The castle will be searched. For now… you cannot return to your dormitory." His voice was grave, and held a new, chilling note of urgency. "He is here. Sirius Black is inside the castle."