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Third POV:
The wind rushed past them as the four students ran across the grounds, their footsteps pounding against the path in uneven rhythm. The air was cool against their heated faces, carrying the faint smell of damp earth and something green from the forest behind them. Clouds moved slowly overhead, indifferent to the panic unfolding below.
Gravel scattered under their shoes. Tiny stones flew in every direction, kicked up by their hurried steps, bouncing off the path and into the grass on either side. Some landed in the mud, some disappeared into the bushes, some just kept rolling until they lost momentum and stopped.
Their breaths came fast. Quick inhales, quicker exhales, the sound of lungs working hard and legs pushing harder. Ron was already starting to wheeze slightly, his face flushed pink beneath his freckles. Harry's breathing was steadier, more controlled, but his jaw was tight with focus. Hermione's breaths were short and sharp, her body moving with efficient, economical movements.
The castle loomed closer with every second—tall, immovable, and completely unforgiving to late students. Its gray stone walls caught the midday light, throwing long shadows across the grounds. The windows stared down at them like a thousand unblinking eyes, watching their approach, counting their mistakes.
"We're dead…" Ron muttered between breaths. His voice came out in bursts, broken up by the rhythm of his running. His robes flapped behind him, caught by the wind, making him look like a ship struggling to stay on course.
"Don't say that—just run!" Harry pushed forward, his voice urgent but not unkind. His feet hit the path harder, faster, pulling ahead of the others by a step.
Hermione didn't speak. She simply ran faster. Her hair streamed behind her, a brown banner in the wind. Her eyes were fixed on the castle entrance, her expression blank with concentration. She didn't look left or right. Didn't glance at the boys beside her. Just ran.
Adam kept pace, surprisingly calm despite the situation, though his eyes remained sharp, calculating the distance. His breathing was steady, almost relaxed, like he was out for a morning jog rather than fleeing toward a classroom he was already late for. His gaze moved from the castle to the ground to the trees and back again, taking everything in, missing nothing.
They reached the stone corridor entrance—
—and stopped.
Abruptly.
Like they had hit an invisible wall.
Their feet skidded on the stone floor, shoes scraping against the ancient rock. Ron stumbled forward a step before catching himself. Harry's arms flew out to steady his balance. Hermione halted so quickly her hair swung forward over her shoulder. Adam simply stopped, smooth and controlled, his weight shifting effortlessly.
Standing there…
Waiting.
Was Professor McGonagall.
Tall. Straight. Unmoving.
She stood in the center of the corridor like a statue carved from something harder than stone. Her hands were clasped in front of her, fingers laced together, resting against the fabric of her robes. Her posture was perfect, spine straight, shoulders back, chin level. She didn't lean. Didn't fidget. Didn't blink.
Her emerald robes fell perfectly into place, untouched by wind or time, and her sharp eyes peered at them from behind her square glasses. The fabric was dark green, almost black in the shadows of the corridor, but caught the light from the windows in soft, rich folds. Her hair was pulled back tightly, not a single strand out of place.
The corridor behind her was silent, almost as if it respected her presence. No echoes. No distant footsteps. No whispers from passing students. Just the heavy, pressing quiet of someone who commanded attention without having to ask for it.
She had clearly been there for a while.
Waiting.
Observing.
Judging.
The four of them froze mid-step.
Ron nearly slipped trying to stop. His foot caught on the edge of a stone, his arms pinwheeled for a moment, and he made a sound somewhere between a yelp and a cough before finding his balance. His face went from pink to red to pale in the span of two seconds.
Harry straightened instantly. His shoulders pulled back, his chin lifted, his whole body shifting from panicked student to respectful pupil in a single breath. His hands dropped to his sides, his fingers pressing flat against his robes.
Hermione composed herself in a second. Her chest was still heaving from the run, but her expression smoothed out into something neutral, something careful. Her hands smoothed down her robes, adjusting the collar, flattening the wrinkles.
Adam… simply raised an eyebrow slightly. Just a fraction. Just enough to show that he was surprised, but not enough to show that he cared about being surprised. His posture remained relaxed, his breathing still steady, his expression unreadable.
"Would one of you care to explain why you are running?"
Her voice was calm.
Measured.
Which made it far worse.
There was no heat in it. No anger. No disappointment, even. Just the flat, even tone of someone who already knew the answer and was giving them a chance to prove they knew it too. The kind of voice that made your stomach drop because you couldn't tell how much trouble you were actually in.
They all glanced at each other.
A silent exchange.
You speak.
No, you speak.
Say something!
Harry opened his mouth.
"Ah…"
The sound came out small, uncertain, nothing like the confident boy who had faced trolls and dark wizards and things far worse than a stern professor. His green eyes darted from McGonagall's face to the floor to the wall and back again, searching for words that wouldn't come.
"We are late for Snape's session."
Adam cut in smoothly.
His voice was calm, respectful, carrying none of the teasing or laziness that usually colored his words. He stepped forward slightly, not far, just enough to draw attention away from Harry's stammering.
All eyes shifted to him.
Ron blinked. Harry's mouth closed. Hermione's gaze moved sideways, landing on Adam's face with something that looked almost like surprise.
He stepped forward slightly, posture straight, voice controlled—
"…And we are deeply and profoundly sorry for this bad behavior, miss."
The tone—
Genuine.
Polished.
Almost too perfect.
His words hung in the air, smooth and careful, like stones skipped across still water. His head was bowed just slightly, not enough to look submissive, but enough to show respect. His hands were clasped behind his back, his feet together, his whole posture screaming remorseful student.
McGonagall looked at him over the rim of her glasses.
A long, assessing look.
The kind that weighed words… and intent.
Her eyes moved across his face, studying his expression, his posture, the angle of his head. She took her time. Seconds stretched into what felt like minutes. The silence pressed down on all of them, heavy and expectant.
Silence stretched for a moment.
Then—
"You may go."
Her voice was still calm, still measured, but something in it had shifted. Not warmth, exactly. More like… acceptance. Approval, even.
A pause.
Her eyes moved across all four of them, one by one, landing on each face for just a moment before moving on.
"…However, I do not wish to see such things again."
"YES!"
All four answered at the same time, straightening instinctively like soldiers. Their voices came together in a single, sharp syllable, loud in the quiet corridor, echoing off the stone walls.
The synchronization was almost comical.
McGonagall gave a small, approving nod.
Her chin dipped once, barely a movement, but enough. Enough to tell them they were dismissed. Enough to tell them they had been given a chance and had not completely wasted it.
They didn't wait another second.
They moved.
Quickly.
But this time—walking.
Fast, but not running. Urgent, but not panicked. Their footsteps were softer now, more controlled, the sound of people who had learned their lesson but were still very aware of the clock ticking somewhere ahead.
---
Once they were far enough down the corridor—
The stone walls stretched around them, ancient and gray, lit by torches that flickered in their brackets. The light danced across the floor, casting shadows that moved and shifted with each step they took. The air was cooler here, away from the sun, carrying the faint smell of old stone and older magic.
Ron turned immediately toward Adam, disbelief written all over his face.
His eyebrows were raised so high they had almost disappeared into his hairline. His mouth was slightly open, his freckles standing out against his pale skin, his whole expression caught somewhere between astonishment and admiration.
"Since when are you that respectful and sorry?!"
His voice was loud in the corridor, bouncing off the walls, carrying an edge of genuine confusion. He looked at Adam like he was seeing a completely different person.
Adam let out a short laugh.
The sound was quiet, almost private, like a joke shared only with himself. His shoulders shook once, then settled, and the corner of his mouth curved upward in that familiar, lazy way.
"Why?" he said casually, as if the answer was obvious. "…The best way to handle a woman is to show how deeply you regret… and how sorry you are."
He shrugged lightly.
His shoulders rose and fell, the movement easy, unbothered. His hands slipped into his pockets, his posture relaxing now that the danger had passed.
"I always do this."
Then—
He glanced sideways.
Right at Hermione.
His eyes moved slowly, deliberately, landing on her profile. She was walking beside them, her gaze fixed straight ahead, her expression carefully blank. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her shoulders stiff, her jaw set.
"…Well…"
A smirk formed.
His lips curved upward, slow and teasing, carrying that familiar edge of mischief that seemed to live permanently on his face.
"…this doesn't work with some, unfortunately."
A brief pause.
His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, taking in the set of her shoulders, the way her fingers curled into her sleeves, the slight tightening of her jaw.
"…Not all women are the same."
Hermione didn't even look at him.
Didn't respond.
Didn't slow down.
Her feet continued their steady rhythm against the stone floor, her pace unchanged, her posture unchanged. It was as if he hadn't spoken at all. As if he wasn't there.
She simply walked past them—
Her shoulder brushed past Adam's arm as she moved, not pushing, not avoiding, just… passing. Like he was a piece of furniture she had learned to navigate around.
Straight ahead—
Her footsteps echoed in the corridor, sharp and precise, carrying her forward without hesitation. The torchlight caught her hair, her robes, the set of her shoulders, painting her in shades of orange and gold.
Now standing in front of the classroom door.
Waiting.
Her back was to them, straight and still, her hands clasped in front of her. She didn't turn around. Didn't look back. Just stood there, facing the wooden door, waiting for the rest of them to catch up.
Adam watched her for a second.
His eyes moved across her back, her shoulders, the way her hair fell against her robes. His smirk softened into something smaller, something more private, something that looked almost like fondness but not quite.
Then smirked slightly.
"…I just love making her even madder."
His voice was quiet, almost thoughtful, like he was sharing a secret with himself rather than speaking to the others.
Ron shook his head slowly.
His head moved from side to side, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and resignation. His lips pressed together, then parted, then pressed together again, like he was trying to find words that didn't exist.
Harry did the same.
His green eyes moved from Adam to Hermione's back and back again, his expression unreadable. His glasses caught the torchlight, flashing briefly, hiding his eyes for just a moment.
Neither of them said a word.
Some situations…
Were beyond fixing.
[ End of Chapter 40 ].
To Be Continued...
__
If you want to read more about my works or just to support me then here is my patreon:
Patreon.com/Doflamingo4 .
__
If you liked this one. Cheek also my other stories:
[ Shadow Monarch in One Piece].
Patreon.com/Doflamingo4
__
Thank you all for reading...