"Thanks, Harold—really. If you hadn't brought Madam Pomfrey in time…"
Harry had already said it at least five times, but every time he glanced at the bed next to his, he felt that same wave of relief—and gratitude.
Draco Malfoy's leg was lying limply on the bed like a pale, fleshy rubber boot. Lockhart had removed the entire bone.
If Madam Pomfrey hadn't been there, that might've been his treatment.
The leg was bad enough—but Harry's shoulder had also been injured. It was dangerously close to his neck. What if Lockhart had slipped and pulled out a vertebra instead?
Harry shivered at the thought and looked back at Harold. "I'll give you all my Chocolate Frog cards. I remember you collect them too, right?"
"I don't need any more Dumbledores, thanks," Harold replied.
Harry looked sheepish—over half his collection consisted of Dumbledore cards.
Draco hadn't woken up since passing out from shock upon learning that his leg was now boneless.
"What happened with the match?" Harry asked anxiously.
"It's complicated," Ron muttered, still fuming. "Malfoy jumping onto your broom was already a foul. Marcus Flint claims that invalidated the entire game—and Madam Hooch did blow her whistle."
"…Meaning?" Harry felt a chill.
"They're arguing you caught the Snitch after the whistle. So it doesn't count."
"What?! I didn't hear any whistle! I was focused on the Snitch and trying not to get pulled off my broom!"
"Exactly what Oliver said!" Ron growled, clenching his fists and glaring toward the unconscious Malfoy, as though two punches would make him feel better.
Unfortunately, glaring turned into a shouting match, which turned into them getting kicked out of the hospital wing.
"Sorry… I just got too mad," Ron mumbled as he and Harold walked away.
"It's fine. We only had ten minutes anyway," Harold replied. "Where's Hermione? She's not visiting Harry?"
"She went to see Professor McGonagall," Ron said. "She thinks Malfoy tried to murder Harry, so she went straight to report him after the match ended.
"I really hope they expel Malfoy. He almost got Harry's head knocked off."
Ron glanced back at the hospital wing, wondering why he hadn't actually punched Malfoy. The guy had been unconscious—Madam Pomfrey was busy with potions—it would've been the perfect crime.
Back in the castle, students were still buzzing about the match, particularly Lockhart's dramatic "healing" of Malfoy.
No matter how you looked at it, the magic had failed. But Malfoy wasn't in pain anymore.
By lunchtime, Oliver Wood came in with good news.
Madam Hooch had rejected Marcus Flint's protest—the result stood.
"Foul committed by Draco Malfoy," Fred declared, mimicking Madam Hooch's voice. "The fact that Harry Potter caught the Snitch despite interference only proves the win was earned fair and square!"
"Darn right!" George cheered. "There's no rule in Quidditch that says a Seeker falling off his broom cancels the game."
"Professor Lockhart must've agreed," Fred added with a grin, "why else would he take Malfoy's bones out?"
"I heard Malfoy has to drink Skele-Gro."
"Trust me, that stuff hurts. Feels like someone carving you with a knife."
"And with twenty-six bones to regrow…"
Together, the twins shouted:
"Gilderoy Lockhart the GREATEST Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher ever!"
Right then, Lockhart happened to be passing by the door. He froze, then bolted.
Sure, he liked attention—but not that kind. Slytherins were full of pure-blooded families. Crossing them was asking for trouble.
But while Lockhart tried to escape, Fred and George weren't letting him off the hook.
"Professor Lockhart!" George shouted. "Anyone want an autograph?"
Half of Gryffindor surged out the door behind them.
"So many fans asking for signatures. I bet Professor Lockhart will be thrilled," Harold said dryly. Hermione, meanwhile, had a very tight-lipped expression.
Later that afternoon, Lucius Malfoy arrived to take Draco home. Rumor had it he also barged into the Headmaster's office and got into a shouting match with Dumbledore.
No one knew exactly what was said, but Lucius had stormed out vowing to rally the school governors and have Dumbledore removed.
Almost no one took him seriously.
"He thinks he can threaten Dumbledore? Who does he think he is?" Ron scoffed, rolling his eyes.
Even Cornelius Fudge wouldn't dare try to oust Dumbledore—let alone someone like Malfoy.
That night, Gryffindor threw a grand party in the common room to celebrate their first Quidditch win.
Too bad Harry had to spend the night in the hospital wing—he deserved to be at the party.
Still, the celebration lasted late into the evening.
The next morning, Harold didn't go to the library like usual. Instead, he visited Hagrid in the Forbidden Forest.
"Well, I thought you'd forgotten how to get here," Hagrid said gruffly.
"Don't be like that," Harold said, a little guilty. He hadn't visited in nearly half a year, counting the holidays.
"Me and Fluffy had a little... misunderstanding," Harold said, glancing around nervously. "He's not here, is he?"
"He's deep in the forest," Hagrid said, though his tone softened a bit. "Fluffy didn't mean to chase you. He was under a Dark spell. He's a sweet little thing, most days."
Harold forced a laugh.
Easy for Hagrid to say—he could toss full-grown trolls across the room. But Harold, a twelve-year-old, barely stood as tall as Fluffy's head.
And it wasn't just the castle chase.
His main wand, Silvermane, contained two of Fluffy's teeth as its core. And that—well—that was the main source of guilt.
Good thing Fluffy couldn't talk.
They chatted for a while longer, and Hagrid's irritation faded. He even brought out his signature treat: rock-hard treacle fudge.
"Right. I heard you've basically moved into the library," Hagrid said, pouring tea.
"Exaggerated, really," Harold said. "I've just been reading more Transfiguration books—trying to learn Animagus transformation."
"Animagus?" Hagrid blinked. "That's advanced stuff. They say only wizards who can fully change into an animal ever master it."
"Yeah, it's tough," Harold admitted, sipping his tea.
As for the fudge… well, he had just eaten breakfast. No need to suffer right now.
"How many books have you read?" Hagrid asked.
"Counting journals? About thirty," Harold said. "A few I've gone through more than once." Follow current novᴇls on 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵~𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖~𝙣𝙚𝙩
"Thirty…" Hagrid muttered. He hadn't made it through one.
"Not saying reading's bad, just—maybe you're rushing a bit too much? I think Hermione's a good example. She studies, but she knows how to relax too."
"I relax," Harold insisted. "I went to the Quidditch match yesterday, didn't I?"
"Speaking of which," Hagrid said, "I heard Harry got hurt. Is he alright?"
"Couple of broken bones. He'll be fine. Should be out today."
Hagrid then took Harold to his pumpkin patch.
If Harold had come before Halloween, he'd have seen pumpkins the size of carriages. But now that the holiday was over, they were just fresh seeds in the soil.
Beside the garden was a fenced enclosure with chickens, ferrets, and other small animals.
"They keep the flesh-eating slugs out of the crops," Hagrid explained. "Pesky things nearly ruined the cabbage."
Hogwarts grew many of its own vegetables, though most were in a larger field behind the castle.
"How about the roosters?" Harold asked casually.
"Perfect," Hagrid said. "Better than any potion. Buckbeak keeps eyeing them, though. I told him—these aren't snacks."
He counted—Hagrid had eight roosters, all plump and lively, with vibrant feathers.
Apparently, flesh-eating slugs made for a fine diet.
By noon, Harold was ready to leave. He opened his Mystic-Pattern Chameleon pouch.
"Right, I actually brought you something this time."
"Oh—that reminds me!" Hagrid said, hurrying to a cupboard. He pulled out a cloth sack and handed it to Harold. "I've been picking stuff up in the forest. Wasn't sure what you needed, so I brought everything. Any longer and I'd have run out of space to store it."