Harry Potter: From Baldur's Gate to Hogwarts

At half-past seven in the evening, Hermione and Harry arrived at Professor McGonagall's office, located on the second-floor corridor. They knocked punctually on the plain, unadorned door.

"Come in," Professor McGonagall's voice called from within.

The door was unlocked. Harry pushed it open, and he and Hermione stepped into the small office, which had been converted from a study.

The room was almost exactly as Harry remembered it from his last visit. It measured roughly twelve feet long and no more than eight feet wide, a cramped space with little decoration beyond a wooden floor and a large rug spread across it. As for furniture, Harry's quick glance revealed only a desk, a few chairs, and a tall bookshelf against the wall, neatly lined with books arranged alphabetically.

The last time Harry had been here, McGonagall's desk had faced the window. Now, perhaps to avoid the chill seeping in from the glass, she had moved it closer to the fireplace. As Harry and Hermione entered, McGonagall was just lighting the gas lamp. Its bright flame filtered through a pink lampshade, casting a soft glow across the room.

"Sit down, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall said, waving her wand. Two chairs glided silently behind them. At the same time, a kettle on the desk, positioned next to a mirror, poured water into two cups for Harry and Hermione.

"Now, tell me," McGonagall began, her gaze piercing through her square spectacles, "where were you two for the first half of the Yule Ball?" Her tone sharpened. "I doubt it takes three hours to get from the Great Hall to the West Tower, especially you, Miss Granger. I expected more responsibility from a Hogwarts champion."

Faced with McGonagall's questioning, Hermione shrank into her chair, occasionally stealing glances at Harry. Harry, on the other hand, was far more direct. He had no intention of hiding anything. Perhaps worried that words alone wouldn't suffice, he used a simple Duplicato charm to recreate the scene from that night. After all, points had already been deducted, detention served, and McGonagall was one of the few who knew about his experiences in another world.

As for keeping his relationship with Hermione a secret? Why bother? It was entirely aboveboard. If Harry weren't so used to keeping a low profile, he'd have wanted all of Hogwarts to know they were together—especially after Neville let slip that Viktor Krum, that Durmstrang student, had invited Hermione to the ball.

Before he and Hermione had confirmed their feelings for each other, Harry had no standing—or right—to stop anyone else from pursuing her. But now?

Harry Potter was fiercely protective.

Three minutes later, Harry finished his explanation, and Hermione's face was bright red.

"If that's the case…" McGonagall sighed, her tone softening slightly, "your actions are somewhat understandable." But then her voice turned stern again. "However! Rules are rules! Given that you two were drinking underage, I'm doubling your punishment."

And so, Harry and Hermione found themselves miserably grading assignments (fifth- and sixth-year ones) while McGonagall leisurely marked first- to third-year papers. Seventh-year assignments? Those were limited to a single essay per term, and since the second term had just begun, most seventh-years hadn't even drafted their outlines, let alone submitted anything.

Indeed, McGonagall's detention for Harry and Hermione consisted of helping her grade assignments. She had initially considered sending them to the Forbidden Forest for some character-building hardship, as was customary, but given Harry's history of using detentions as an excuse to sneak into the forest…

No, it was better to keep him contained. McGonagall nodded with satisfaction as she watched Harry and Hermione, faces grim, flipping through books and grading advanced Transfiguration assignments.

Her choice to have them mark fifth- and sixth-year work wasn't arbitrary. She had noticed that, while Harry and Hermione's practical skills rivaled those of sixth- and seventh-years, their theoretical knowledge was sorely lacking. In short, they were two highly capable, hands-on "illiterates" who could've been Transfiguration assistants but lacked the academic foundation.

By the time McGonagall released them, it was nearly curfew. Dazed and bleary-eyed, Harry and Hermione hurried toward the Gryffindor Tower. But as they climbed to the eighth floor, Harry caught sight of a figure rushing downstairs.

"Malfoy?" Harry muttered, puzzled. "I thought the Slytherin common room was in the dungeons. What's he doing up here on the eighth floor?" He watched the blond figure vanish into the darkness.

For the next few evenings, Harry and Hermione were confined to McGonagall's office, grading assignments. The more Harry graded, the more something felt off. Excluding duplicates, he had marked at least forty Transfiguration assignments, and with Hermione's share, they had graded nearly eighty. But… did Hogwarts' sixth- and seventh-year advanced Transfiguration classes really have that many students?

Another Saturday arrived, and Harry and his friends decided to visit Hogsmeade.

Bundled in warm clothes, they left the castle, trudging through soft snow across the cold, damp grounds toward the school gates.

As they passed the Durmstrang ship moored on the Black Lake, they spotted Viktor Krum emerging from the cabin onto the deck. In weather so cold that even multiple layers of clothing felt insufficient, the wiry, dark-haired boy wore nothing but a pair of swimming trunks.

With agile movements, Krum climbed onto the ship's railing, spread his arms, and dove into the water with a splash.

"You wouldn't guess Krum was that skinny, would you?" Ron remarked, smacking his lips. "I bet Durmstrang's even colder than Hogwarts. No way I'd jump into the lake in this weather."

"Oh no!" Hermione suddenly gasped.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked.

"The clue in the golden egg…" Hermione rummaged through her small satchel and pulled out a notebook, reading softly from it. "'Come seek us where our voices sound, we cannot sing above the ground.' I thought we just needed to dive, but…" She paused, her mind racing. "The egg can only be understood underwater. Does that mean the second task is in the Black Lake?"

"What's wrong with the Black Lake?" Ron asked, confused.

"The problem," Harry explained, "is that the Black Lake could be one or two hundred feet deep. For non-professional divers without equipment, humans can only dive about thirty feet. At two hundred feet, the pressure could be six or seven times that at the surface."

"So?" Ron still looked baffled.

Hermione, exasperated, waved her wand and transformed the snow in front of them into a blackboard. She crouched down, conjured a piece of chalk, and began calculating.

"First… Phydrostatic = 1000 kg/m³ 9.81 m/s² 60.96 m… That's about 5.9 atm. Add the atmospheric pressure at the surface… Ptotal = 1 atm + 5.9 atm = 6.9 atm. Roughly seven atmospheres."

"Seven? That doesn't sound like much," Ron said, unimpressed by Hermione's flurry of calculations.

Ignoring him, Hermione turned to Harry. "Harry, what did Professor Viktor say about the human body's pressure limit?"

"I think it's around 20,000 pounds per square foot," Harry replied, crouching beside her and conjuring his own chalk to join her on the blackboard. "In metric, that's about 1,000 kilopascals per square meter, or roughly ten atmospheres."

Ron stood alone in the chilly wind, watching Harry and Hermione scribble and discuss terms he couldn't begin to understand. A faint sense of being left behind crept over him.

"Wait," Hermione said, "you haven't factored in nitrogen solubility in the blood under high pressure. That can cause loss of consciousness and erratic behavior. And the pressure's a strain on the heart, not to mention barotrauma…"

"Can you two say something a normal person can understand?" Ron interjected weakly.

After some discussion, Harry and Hermione ruled out the relatively simple Bubble-Head Charm and decided to focus on human Transfiguration for the task ahead.

On the way to Hogsmeade, their conversation swung from one extreme to another, leaving Ron—who couldn't follow either topic—feeling thoroughly out of place.

The trio took a carriage to Hogsmeade and, at Ron's suggestion, headed to the Three Broomsticks.

As usual, the pub was bustling. They made their way to the bar, ordering three Butterbeers and some snacks from Madam Rosmerta.

Harry and Hermione resumed their discussion on human Transfiguration, while Ron sipped his Butterbeer, sneaking glances at Madam Rosmerta's curvaceous figure.

During their conversation, Ludo Bagman approached, congratulating Hermione on her performance in the first task and hinting he could offer "a little help" for the second. Cheating, however, was not an option for Hermione, who despised it more than anything. She hadn't known Hagrid was taking her to see the dragons beforehand, or she'd never have gone.

Disappointed, Bagman left, and a group of goblins at a nearby table followed suit.

As the trio reached their third round of Butterbeers, someone they all disliked entered the pub.

Rita Skeeter swept in, clad in a banana-yellow robe, her long nails painted a garish pink. She was accompanied by her portly photographer. Ordering drinks, she and the photographer wove through the crowd toward a table opposite Harry, Hermione, and Ron.

Seemingly oblivious to their glares, Rita chattered excitedly, clearly pleased about something. "…He didn't seem keen to talk, did he, Bozo? Why's that, do you think? What's he up to, trailing a pack of goblins? 'Showing them the sights,' he says—utter nonsense. Has something happened? Should we dig deeper? 'Disgraced Former Head of Magical Games and Sports, Ludo Bagman'… Now that's a juicy headline, Bozo. We just need the right story to go with it…"

Rita paused, her eyes widening. "Harry! Hermione!" she exclaimed, delighted. "Why don't you join us—"

"Sitting with someone who'd sell out people's private lives for fame and money? Sorry, I'd rather not vomit," Harry said coldly.

Rita's heavily penciled eyebrows shot up. "My readers have a right to the truth, Harry. I'm just doing my job as a journalist."

"So you paint a kind-hearted man as a violent, dangerous dark wizard?" Harry scoffed. "Hagrid just happens to have a giantess for a mother. That doesn't mean anything!"

The pub fell silent, every eye turning to Harry and Rita Skeeter.

Rita's smile flickered but quickly steadied. She opened her crocodile-skin handbag, pulled out her Quick-Quotes Quill, and said, "Care to talk about the Hagrid you know, Harry? The humanity behind the muscle? Your puzzling friendship and the reasons behind it… Do you see him as a father figure deep down?"

Harry narrowed his eyes, contemplating which spell might teach this woman a lesson, but Hermione was faster.

She shot to her feet. "You despicable woman," she hissed through gritted teeth. "You don't care about anyone—Dumbledore, Harry, anyone—as long as you get your story. Twisting the truth without a care… Aren't you afraid of crossing someone you shouldn't?"

Rita looked at Hermione, her smile vanishing. "Don't lecture me about things you don't understand, little girl. I know a few things about your precious Dumbledore—shocking secrets that would leave you in tears."

"Hermione, Harry, let's go," Ron whispered, sensing the tension escalating.

As the trio left, many eyes followed them.

At the door, Harry glanced back. Rita Skeeter's Quick-Quotes Quill was already scribbling furiously across a sheet of parchment.

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