After Herbology, Harold handed his shears and the wrapped shrivelfig to Professor Sprout, then headed back toward the castle with the others.
"I'm kind of hungry," Harry said, rubbing his stomach. "Hope we've got pumpkin pie again for dinner—that was amazing."
"That's only for Halloween," Hermione replied. "Tonight should be beef pie."
"That works too," Harry grinned.
The group crossed the grounds and soon reached the stone steps leading into the castle.
"Harry! There you are—we've been waiting for you!"
Oliver Wood stood at the entrance, decked out in red Quidditch gear, waving vigorously. "I was just about to go check the greenhouses!"
"What's up, Oliver?" Harry asked.
"Training, of course!"
Wood pulled out the broom behind him. "Professor McGonagall said we can use the Quidditch pitch again after Halloween. I even posted the schedule in the common room yesterday morning—don't tell me you didn't see it?"
Harry suddenly remembered he was on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.
"Hurry up," Wood said, not pressing the point. He grabbed Harry and started pulling him toward the pitch. "We're already two months behind! We've got to make up for lost time before our first match!"
"My broom…" Harry protested. "It's still in the common room. I need to grab it—"
"No worries, the Weasley twins already brought it over."
And just like that, Harry was swept off to training without even getting a bite to eat.
Judging by Wood's tone, he was planning to cram an entire term's worth of practice into the next few weeks.
Let's hope Harry survives.
Harold didn't head back to the common room with Ron and Hermione. Instead, he swung by the library.
But not to read—he waited until most students had cleared out, then made his way alone to the eighth floor, aimlessly wandering.
He stopped in a quiet corridor, rarely visited by students, and stared at a tapestry on the wall.
It showed the story of Barnabas the Barmy being clubbed by trolls. Directly across from it was a blank wall—no paintings, no suits of armor.
Alright, let's try this.
Harold began pacing in front of the wall, focusing his thoughts on what he needed.
A place to hide something… a place to hide something…
On the third pass, the previously blank wall transformed.
A gleaming new door appeared, smooth and polished, with a golden handle.
The Room of Requirement—Hogwarts' most mysterious space. It was said to become whatever its user needed most.
Some came to hide from Filch during curfew—it would become a broom cupboard. Others wanted to practice spells—it would be filled with books, dummies, and magical instruments.
Harold needed a place to hide things.
He grabbed the handle and pushed the door open.
What he saw made him draw a sharp breath.
It looked like a massive warehouse—like a labyrinth of forgotten junk. Bigger than the Great Hall, the room was packed so tight there wasn't even a clear path to walk through.
Towering cabinets leaned precariously against one another. Broken cauldrons were stacked like mountains. There were books, candlesticks, bedframes everywhere—an accumulation of centuries' worth of abandoned things.
Harold stood at the threshold for a long moment before backing out and slamming the door shut.
Then he began pacing again.
A place to hide things… preferably one where the lost diadem of Ravenclaw is just sitting in plain sight…
He opened the door after the third pass—same room.
He tried again, this time mentally spelling out exactly what he wanted. Thɪs chapter is updated by 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭•𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦•𝘯𝘦𝘵
Apparently, while the room could adapt, its entrance location was fixed.
Harold had no choice but to head back into the labyrinth of junk.
He wanted to find the diadem, but there was no starting point.
The room was enormous. The "walls" made of clutter teetered dangerously. At one point, Harold accidentally kicked a stray umbrella, which sent an entire mound of luggage, kettles, and brooms toppling—crashing into hundreds of cabinets and a few four-poster beds.
He moved much more cautiously after that, slowly picking his way down a narrow path. After half an hour of walking, he still hadn't reached an end.
Worried he'd get lost, Harold retraced his steps. On the way back, he did find a few coronets—but all of them were decorative trinkets, not what he was looking for.
The return trip took another half hour. And that was just one path.
At this rate, finding Ravenclaw's diadem was nearly impossible. He'd need to live here for two months straight to even have a chance.
And there was no way the school would allow that.
Harold had a theory—Harry must've found the diadem so quickly back then because one Horcrux could sense another.
Maybe I should ask Harry to help? Harold rubbed his chin.
Getting Harry there wouldn't be hard. Getting him to help was even easier. The problem was Harry's boundless curiosity—and his terrible habit of blurting out secrets.
And Harold's plan to turn Voldemort's soul into a wand core? Not exactly sanctioned by wizarding law. Definitely best kept quiet.
Forget it. I'll decide later. Besides, Harry's busy these days anyway.
Harold shook his head and left the Room of Requirement.
Harry really was busy.
Oliver Wood had gone completely overboard, practically applying for Quidditch pitch access eight times a week.
Marcus Flint of Slytherin was just as bad. The two teams constantly clashed over practice time—thankfully, all minor scuffles. No one had landed in the hospital wing yet.
Mostly because everyone was afraid McGonagall would ban pitch access again if things escalated.
Still, Slytherin's brand-new set of seven Nimbus 2001s had Wood feeling insecure. So he finally gave up competing for evening slots and booked Gryffindor's practice times in the mornings instead.
All other houses used the pitch after dinner, right up until curfew.
By practicing in the mornings, Wood not only got full access, but also avoided being rushed.
Of course, he didn't cancel Gryffindor's usual three evening sessions either.
Which meant the team was exhausted.
Every day at 5 a.m. sharp, Harry was shaken awake by Wood and dragged, half-asleep, to the pitch.
He was a wreck—dark circles under his eyes, nodding off constantly. One night at dinner, he nearly dunked his face in his porridge.
"Maybe I should talk to Professor McGonagall," Harold said. "Get her to give Wood a two-day detention or something. I'm seriously afraid Harry's going to fall asleep midair."
A forced time-out for Wood would be a welcome break for everyone else too.
But Harry sat up straight in alarm. "No, don't! Please!"
He waved both hands frantically. "If he gets detention, he'll probably wake us up at four to make up for it!"
He yawned loudly. "What day is it?"
"Tuesday," Hermione answered.
"Phew." Harry slumped in relief. "No practice tonight. I can finally finish my homework and sleep early."
Hermione glanced at his pitiful expression and hesitated. "Want to borrow my homework?"
"Thanks, Hermione," Harry said gratefully. "You're a lifesaver."
That meant an extra hour of sleep.
"Yeah, thanks!" Ron chimed in as well.
"You don't play Quidditch. Do your own work," Hermione shot back.
Ron pouted and turned away.
Usually at this point, Harry would step in to mediate. But he was far too tired to care.
Harold, meanwhile, was lost in thought.
After dinner, he went back to the Room of Requirement.
He'd been visiting a lot lately. At first, he was focused on finding the diadem. But over time, he realized—
This room was a treasure trove.
He'd even found a Seven-Spoked Broomstick from the 14th century.
Obviously, it no longer worked. But the craftsmanship had preserved the handle beautifully.
Back in the 12th century, flying had been a sport for nobles, so the materials used were top-tier.
When Harold dismantled it, the grain inside was still visible—Swedish white ash, grown for over two centuries in enchanted forests and preserved with ancient techniques.
Once he shaved off the outer layers, the core was practically a work of art.
He also found a Silver Arrow from the 1500s. As for more recent models like the Moontrimmer and the Comet 260, Harold scoffed—too new. He tossed them back.
He also came across strange eggshells and gemstones—though they held no magic and weren't particularly valuable. In fact, some were likely dangerous.
Apart from furniture, this place was mostly filled with junk students had hidden and forgotten.
And if they'd wanted to hide it, chances were it wasn't exactly harmless.
Harold had even spotted a bloodstained axe once, and bottles that still glowed with malevolent light.
As usual, he scoured the room again and still didn't find the lost diadem.
Looks like I'll have to bring Harry in after all, he thought as he returned to the common room.