The Gaunt family line can be traced back to Salazar Slytherin, one of Hogwarts' four founders.
They barely qualify as descendants of Slytherin, and according to the books the line died out decades ago.
Marvolo Gaunt, Morfin Gaunt and Merope Gaunt were the last three members of the Gaunt family.
Amanda instinctively filed away those three names and the origin of the Gaunt family, merging the information with the vast amount she had already read.
She could retrieve it whenever she needed, allowing the facts to interlock like a huge net.
'Good evening, Amanda,' said Cho Chang as she and Marietta walked into the Dormitory. They had stayed in the Library to finish homework after dinner, so they were only getting back now.
When they entered they saw Amanda reading at her desk. Marietta shot Cho a meaningful look.
Why is Amanda back? Didn't she go to comfort Hermione?
Cho blinked, signalling back with her eyes.
She only went to comfort Hermione; of course she'd come back once she was done.
Cho looked perfectly matter-of-fact, while Marietta seemed disappointed.
Knowing her best friend well, Cho could tell exactly what Marietta was thinking from her expression.
Rolling her eyes helplessly, Cho leaned in and whispered fiercely, 'They're both still young!'
Marietta guiltily touched her nose and whispered back, 'I know, but… Hermione's being so obvious.'
'Still no,' Cho murmured, watching Amanda turn toward them. 'At least wait until they're third-years, and even then Amanda would have to return Hermione's feelings.'
'True.' Marietta nodded, accepting her friend's point.
'Good evening, Senior Cho Chang, Senior Marietta,' Amanda greeted politely once their whispering stopped.
She had already broken out of her study mode when they'd called her full name earlier, but had stayed quiet so as not to interrupt their silent conversation.
Silent communication counts as conversation, and interrupting would have been impolite; she wouldn't do that.
Cho and Marietta smiled at the greeting; their junior was clever and well-behaved—impossible not to like.
Cho stepped forward and 'lovingly' patted Amanda's head, then noticed the book on the desk and blinked.
'A book introducing Pure-blood families in the Wizarding World? You're interested in this?'
At Cho's surprise Amanda answered evenly, 'I'm reading through the Library in order; I reached this one. No book is meaningless—each deserves to be read.'
Cho felt herself choke on the reply. Why had she even asked? She knew Amanda's reading 'rules'; her brain must have short-circuited.
'All right, carry on.' Cho smiled and left her in peace, turning to gather her things for a shower with Marietta.
Amanda turned back to her book and instantly re-entered study mode.
Next morning's class was again Defense Against the Dark Arts, currently voted second-most unpleasant by the student body.
First place, of course, went to Professor Snape's Potions class—his tongue was too sharp, and he never awarded full marks or points to non-Slytherins.
Many Young Wizards were convinced nothing during the rest of their school lives could surpass Potions for misery.
Hermione, however, considered Snape's Potions far superior to Lockhart's Defense Against the Dark Arts.
'At least in Professor Snape's class I learn something. What can I learn from Lockhart—stage acting?'
Hermione delivered her scathing verdict on Lockhart's unique teaching style.
After the fiasco of his first lesson, Lockhart had apparently realised that becoming a Hogwarts Professor did not turn ineptitude into expertise.
So he changed his approach, managing to make his lessons completely useless instead of merely farcical.
He had the students act out scenes from his books in turn, to the annoyance of all four Houses.
'Harry, Harry, I think you should play me. And Neville—you too. Come on, shy boy, no need to be bashful in my class.'
Lockhart beamed and pointed to Harry and Neville.
His favourite 'actor' was Harry, whom he especially loved to cast as himself.
Privately Harry suspected Lockhart simply enjoyed watching him make a fool of himself; otherwise why keep asking him when he always performed so badly?
Amanda sat watching Harry and Neville trudge to the front and begin their lifeless performance.
At first Lockhart had often called on Amanda, but after two turns in which she delivered every line deadpan and expressionless he stopped asking.
She couldn't be accused of refusing—she came up whenever called and showed no resentment, giving him no excuse to deduct points.
Yet she put no emotion or expression into the acting; even Neville performed better.
Consequently Amanda was now the safest student in Lockhart's class.
Watching Harry and Neville's 'passionate' performance, Hermione propped her chin in her hand.
'Amanda, by comparison you're an absolutely brilliant teacher. Do you ever plan to stay on and teach here?'
She turned to Amanda as she spoke. Planning a career at their age seemed premature, but the topic had come up.
She was genuinely curious about Amanda's future plans.
Amanda turned stiffly, eyes dull. 'I will master knowledge, enter university, then pursue a master's degree and strive to become a doctoral candidate.'
Hermione blinked in surprise. 'University? Master's? Doctorate?'
'You're going back to the Muggle World for further study?'
Rapidly searching her memory, Amanda realised she had never heard those terms in the Wizarding World.
Assuming they existed but were simply ignored because everyone focused on immediate schooling, she answered mechanically, 'I will continue my studies in the Wizarding World.'
Hermione looked puzzled. 'As far as I know, the British Wizarding World has no schools besides Hogwarts—no universities, master's programmes or doctorates at all.'
Amanda's brain short-circuited for a moment—there was only one magical school in the British Wizarding World: Hogwarts. So what happened after graduation?
She'd assumed Hogwarts' seven-year system was like a combined junior and senior high school, and that afterward you still had to test into university and climb higher.
Turns out it's the top of the ladder?
Seeing Amanda freeze, Hermione quickly reached out and patted her back.
"It's fine, it's fine. If you want to go to university, I'll come with you. We can aim for Cambridge, for University College London—we'll work hard and get into those top schools."
"If you want to do a master's, a doctorate, I'll be right there with you."
As she spoke, Hermione resolved that her parents had to start making arrangements for her and Amanda.
At the very least they'd have to self-study all the Muggle courses, register them at a school, and arrange to sit the exams on leave.
Only then could Amanda follow her own plans to attend university, pursue graduate studies, and earn higher degrees.
Whatever Amanda wanted to do, Hermione now instinctively began plotting for her—slipping herself into that future as well.
After a brief blank stare, Amanda nodded calmly. Yes, she had to keep studying.
The Wizarding World had no higher institutes beyond Hogwarts, but the Muggle World did.
Learning had no ceiling; she had to keep going.
In Amanda's mind, everything revolved around study; everything seemed to exist for the sake of study.
That crushing Defense Against the Dark Arts class finally ended; when the bell rang, Harry and Neville at the front felt as joyful as when people heard Voldemort had died twelve years ago.
Harry hurried off the platform, snatched his bag, and bolted for the door.
He didn't even wait for Hermione, Ron, and Amanda. With an amused shake of her head, Hermione packed up, linked arms with Amanda, and left the classroom.
The Ravenclaws nearby, seeing Hermione leading away their darling, looked away and strolled out as if nothing had happened.
In the Great Hall, Hermione didn't let go until she'd escorted Amanda all the way to the Ravenclaw Table.
Only after Hermione had reached the Gryffindor Table and started eating did Amanda pick up her own fork and knife.
Head down over lunch, Amanda heard a soft bang from the Slytherin Table.
She glanced up: Draco Malfoy sat there, splattered head-to-toe in shimmering, shifting paint.
The burns she'd given him yesterday had healed completely.
She hadn't used Fiendfyre or any magically charged flame—just Hogwarts' own lighting fire, boosted by a Fire-Making Spell.
So he, Crabbe, and Goyle had nothing worse than ordinary scalds.
For Madam Pomfrey, treating such burns was easier than drinking water: two specialized charms and a vial of Potion, and all three boys walked out on the spot.
As for who had attacked them—since Professor Snape and Headmaster Dumbledore found no traces at the scene,
not even the faintest magical residue—the incident joined the earlier mystery of the exploding Slytherin Table.
This time, it was clearly another Little Eagle's handiwork.
The paint splattering Draco wasn't ordinary; it glittered and slithered over him like living things.
An alchemical product—Amanda identified it at once, then resumed eating.
Plenty of other Little Eagles recognized it too,
and almost in unison they looked toward their seventh-year Senior Platt.
A creation that dazzling, even in Ravenclaw House, was accepted as hers alone.
Sure enough, Platt nodded slightly to her housemates: they'd guessed right.
With daily "accidents" befalling Draco, Professor Snape was almost getting used to it.
The Little Eagles worked with true scholar style; unlike the Gryffindors, after the first day's clumsy attempt
they took precautions to keep their pranks untraceable.
Now, when Snape raised his wand to remove the paint, it merely paused a second before leaping off Draco and lunging at him.
Had Snape not dodged, the paint would have latched onto him instead.
Watching the puddle evaporate on the floor, Snape's mouth twitched.
He turned to the Staff Table; the Alchemy Professor cleared his throat, stepped down, and murmured a few alchemical terms at Draco.
At once most of the paint vanished, but a stubborn patch refused to disappear.
The Professor raised an eyebrow; he already knew whose work this was.
"Truly… tricky work," he said, glancing at Snape and the near-tearful Draco as he changed his adjective.
"I'm still far behind," Platt murmured, watching the Professor erase most of her creation.
"You're barely seventeen—he's studied Alchemy for decades. Don't belittle yourself and depress the rest of us."
A fellow Alchemy student groaned; if Platt counted as "far behind," what did that make them?
A waste of tuition?
What happened next convinced them they really had wasted it.
Platt stood, walked straight to Amanda, and, once Amanda swallowed, bent down gently.
"Amanda, may I ask how to keep my alchemical creations from being dispelled like that?"
Amanda turned, toneless. "Of course, Senior Platt."
She looked at Draco, her mind racing through the paint's structure and principles,
deduced how to dissolve it, then reversed the process to block that method.
In under five seconds she had the answer and recited it to Platt, step by logical step.
Platt nodded along, nearly reaching for a notebook.
Every Little Eagle studying Alchemy slumped in despair—yes, they really had wasted their years.
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