"Probably found the clue but hasn't cracked how to handle it yet," Hermione guessed. "Which makes sense—the golden egg isn't supposed to be easy."
A minute later, Dylan finally clicked the egg shut.
George was the first to snap out of it. "Dylan, have you guys already figured out the egg's secret?"
"Half of it," Dylan said with a grin.
"Huh?" Neville blinked.
Dylan hummed a short, lilting tune, then looked at the circle of curious faces. "That little melody I just sang? That's the real song inside the egg."
Neville blinked again, scrunching his forehead, trying to connect the ear-splitting screech they'd heard earlier with Dylan's pleasant hum. After a few mental gymnastics, he gave up. "No way. The difference is huge. What came out before sounded like a banshee screaming in your ear—no melody, just pain!"
"Hey, I said banshee first!" Ron shot up his hand, mock-offended. "I told you that exact thing right next to you—give me credit!"
"Fair, it's night-and-day," Dylan laughed, nodding. "But that's the whole trick. You need a medium to turn the garbled noise back into music."
He glanced around. "The medium is moisture. I'm about to make the air nice and damp. If you don't mind scooting closer, the song's pretty soft—you'll want to be near. Oh, and one more thing: cast a quick waterproof charm on yourselves. It's gonna get steamy, and nobody wants soggy robes."
"Song? Waterproof charms?" The weird instructions lit everyone up like Christmas. The earlier screech trauma vanished in a puff of curiosity.
Wands flicked. A soft shimmer coated every robe—thin, invisible shields.
Students shuffled in, forming a tight ring, eyes locked on the egg.
Dylan stepped aside, flicked his wand at the long snack table, and it glided neatly into the corner, clearing floor space.
He gripped the egg again, aimed his wand at the shell, took a breath, and said clearly:
"Humidify."
(A preservation charm normally used to keep greenhouse plants dewy.)
A pale-blue dome rippled out from the egg, swallowing the whole group.
Instantly the air turned lush and cool—skin prickled with tiny water droplets, but it felt fresh, like standing by a lake at dawn.
The wool rug underfoot wasn't so lucky. You could watch it soak up moisture, fluff collapsing into heavy, dark patches. Someone tapped a toe—splash—little beads squirted out.
Dylan pocketed his wand, thumbs on the egg's seam. "Ready? This time you'll hear the real deal."
Nods all around—some excited, some bracing, a few already half-covering their ears just in case.
Click.
No screech.
Instead, a gorgeous choral harmony floated out—male and female voices weaving together, the exact melody Dylan had hummed, now layered and rich.
Clear lyrics drifted through:
"Come seek us where our voices sound,
We cannot sing above the ground.
Your treasure we have taken and will keep
An hour long you'll have to look, and take the prize
Or fail and leave with nothing but regret…"
It repeated twice, then faded.
Dylan closed the egg. One tap of his wand dissolved the blue dome; the humidity vanished. Another flick at the rug—Scourgify—and the wool sprang back, bone-dry.
Silence for three seconds… then the common room exploded.
George first: "From banshee wail to that? What flipped the switch?"
Hermione crouched, poking the now-dry rug, thinking aloud. "Environment. First time—dry air, screech. Second time—Dylan made it super humid, song. The egg needs wet to unlock the real track."
Fred snapped his fingers. "Exactly! Inside the dome the rug was drenched. Medical tent was dry as parchment. Moisture = key."
Dylan let them cook, smiling. Watching them puzzle it out was better than spoon-feeding answers.
The lyrics, though—"pure substance," "dangerous dark," "one hour"—already had his brain ticking toward the second task.
A Gryffindor cupped his chin. "To hit that humidity level, you'd need the seaside on a foggy day—air so thick you could wring it out."
Dylan nodded, tracing the egg's ridges. "And when the sea fog rolls in, one magical creature pops up in every sailor's tale—tied to water and song."
"Sirens!" Hermione's eyes lit. "Merpeople! The egg needs dampness, merpeople live underwater and are famous for singing—has to be connected!"
A kid piped up. "So the egg's about Greek merpeople? I saw them on vacation—beautiful voices, but too far to hear lyrics."
He frowned. "Still, why does humidity flip screech to choir? That's wild."
"Think ritual magic 'medium,'" Dylan explained. "Merpeople vocal cords are built for wet environments. Dry air distorts the sound—same distortion we heard first time. Give them moisture, vibrations travel right, music comes out perfect. Easiest method? Dunk the egg underwater and open it there—same effect."
Another Gryffindor tapped the table, memory sparking. "I read that in a merpeople book—humidity affects song quality."
Dylan nodded. "Not many books on them, but yeah, one chapter spells it out. Warm-water merpeople use song like mind-control—lure sailors off course. Cold-water merpeople are built like tanks—thick scales, claws, teeth. They fight physically, rarely sing. Looks-wise, warm-water ones are prettier, bright scales; cold-water are grim—jagged teeth, dull gray. But all merpeople love music."
George's eyes gleamed. "So task two is underwater against merpeople—has to be the Black Lake!"
Fred leaned in. "Wait—will they ship in Greek merpeople? I've only seen pictures!"
A ripple of excitement—students already picturing bleachers on the lakeshore.
Dylan shook his head, chuckling. "Doubt the Ministry could. Merpeople are sentient—own society, own rules. No way they'd travel from Greece just to be 'props.' Plus, the Black Lake's cold water; Mediterranean merpeople would catch chill in a day."
Fred deflated for half a second, then perked right back up.