"Flesh Transfiguration?" Madam Pince looked suspiciously at the slip of parchment Harold handed her, then glanced up at him. "Are you sure this really came from Minerva?" ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵✶𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖✶𝓷𝓮𝓽
"Of course it's from Professor McGonagall. Her signature is right there," Harold replied.
"How strange… Minerva never writes open-ended borrowing slips," Madam Pince muttered as she held the parchment up to the light, as though checking for forgery.
Well, that answered one question—so that long dash where the return date should be really meant he could keep the books as long as he liked.
Eventually, the slip passed her inspection. She told Harold to wait as she disappeared between the towering shelves. Ten minutes later, she returned with his requested materials.
Seven thick, old tomes. She set them down in three trips. One of them had two loops of rusted chain wrapped tightly around its cover.
Harold's curiosity spiked. What kind of content needed to be bound in chains?
Given the warning from Professor McGonagall, he figured it must be something far more serious than what you'd find in a typical textbook.
He packed the books into his shapeshifting lizard-skin bag and left the library.
But that chain had given him an idea. Maybe he should add something like that to his own Horcrux Codex—a kind of protective shell.
Of course, real chains were too heavy. They'd drain his magic every time the object flew through the air like a wand.
Mulling over designs, Harold exited the library.
With exams approaching, it had become nearly impossible to find an empty seat in the library—most were occupied by fifth- and seventh-years.
Back in the Gryffindor common room, Harold saw Harry, Ron, and Hermione huddled together again. This time, they slipped out quickly before he could approach.
Harold opened the Marauder's Map. Sure enough, the trio had gone to hover near Lockhart's office again. A few minutes later, Harry entered. Ron and Hermione lingered by the hallway corner, then gradually crept closer to the door.
They really were fixated on Lockhart.
But Harold wasn't curious. Not anymore. He put the map away and headed back to the dormitory to read.
First up, the chained book. Since Professor McGonagall had trusted him with it, Harold figured it wouldn't be dangerous.
What puzzled him was that the chain seemed to be part of the book itself—there was no lock, no latch, not even a visible seam.
He tried slipping the chain off from the side, but nothing budged. The moment his palm pressed the cover, the book jerked violently and leapt from his hand.
It hit the floor and morphed into a porcupine right before his eyes, then made a break for the window.
Startled, Harold froze for a second—then lunged for his wand.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
A nearby book floated into the porcupine's path. It slammed into it, knocking the creature to the ground. The porcupine scrambled to its feet, still determined to escape.
Harold cast a Stunner.
It only made the porcupine hesitate for a second.
Next, he tried Petrificus Totalus. No effect.
It was like the creature was immune to ordinary magic.
That's when it hit him. He switched tactics.
The porcupine froze, stiffening in place. Harold aimed another transformation charm to turn it into a snail, and—just like that—it shifted back into its original form: a book bound with a now-split chain.
This time, the cover could be opened freely.
Harold placed it back on his desk, filled with curiosity.
To his surprise, the contents weren't horrifying at all. In fact, it read like a very advanced but perfectly sensible transfiguration manual—far more comprehensive than Advanced Transfiguration.
Strange. It didn't seem like a restricted book at all.
Then he realized—earlier, when he tried to transform the porcupine into slippers, it had frozen. Only when he succeeded with a more complex animal transformation did the book revert to its original form.
Whoever wrote this book was a master of transfiguration, and apparently had a flair for fun. Only those proficient in transfiguration could unlock its contents.
In that case, it absolutely belonged in the Restricted Section. If anyone could borrow it, Hogwarts might quickly become overrun with porcupines.
He glanced at the name on the cover—Cogride Grey.
Didn't ring a bell. Probably a long-deceased wizard.
Harold kept reading until it was nearly time for class. When he finally closed the book, the chain magically sealed itself again.
Apparently, he'd have to pass the "test" each time he wanted to read it. If he'd known, he wouldn't have shut it.
Harold headed out of the common room and jogged toward the greenhouses for Herbology.
While passing the Black Lake, he caught sight of Dumbledore speaking with an old wizard who had only half an arm and one leg.
"Please, Albus, have mercy—I really ought to retire," the old man was saying. "I do hope you've found someone to replace me."
"Of course, Silvanus," Dumbledore replied warmly. "Your service to Hogwarts has been invaluable." His gaze drifted to the man's knee brace. "But I'd be very grateful if you could finish out the year."
"Of course." The old professor agreed without hesitation. "One more term, I can manage that."
A battered old wizard, asking to retire…
Harold knew who he was—Silvanus Kettleburn, the Care of Magical Creatures professor.
TN; Every time I read Silvanus, I always think of a silver a*ns. Which is weird since I've never seen one myself.
Newt Scamander himself once called him "the bravest fool of our time" in Fantastic Beasts—a term that was probably meant as a compliment.
Kettleburn had suffered grievous injuries for his passion. Sixty bones broken. An arm and a half lost to Hungarian Horntails. A leg gone to a Peruvian Vipertooth.
He'd once hugged a Zouwu—cost him five ribs, all now replaced with magical replicas.
He was also the proud recipient of Basic Defensive Spellwork: A Beginner's Guide, sent every year for twelve years straight by the healers at St. Mungo's.
And now, he was retiring.
Which made sense—he clearly wasn't fit to teach much longer.
But who would replace him? Would it be Hagrid?
Harold wasn't so sure.
After all, Hagrid had been expelled fifty years ago for allegedly killing a fellow student. Everyone now knew he wasn't the true culprit, but he'd still been expelled and had his wand broken.
Until the real culprit was caught, Hagrid couldn't legally use a wand—let alone teach at Hogwarts.
And the diary that could've exonerated him had been destroyed. Even what was left of Tom Riddle—the true perpetrator—was only a fragment now.
Could the truth ever be cleared?
Harold slowed his pace and eventually stopped, considering whether he should tell Dumbledore about all this. But the Headmaster was still deep in conversation with Kettleburn—it wasn't the right moment.
"So tell me, Albus—have you found someone to replace me?" Kettleburn asked cheerfully. "Make sure it's someone strong. The creatures in that forest won't go easy on a weakling. Without muscle, they'll tear him apart before lunchtime."
"The forest isn't that bad, Silvanus," Dumbledore chuckled, glancing at the professor's half-ear. "And Bowtruckles don't bite off ears—usually. But I'll admit, your stories do make it harder to find candidates."
"So you haven't found one?"
"On the contrary," Dumbledore said with a smile. "I have someone in mind who fits your criteria perfectly."
"Great. Hopefully he retires with all his limbs still attached."
The two men strolled off in the direction of Hogsmeade.
Harold hesitated. Should he interrupt them now?
But just then, the school bell rang.
Never mind. Another time, then.
After all, Professor Kettleburn wouldn't retire until next year—there was still time.
Harold turned and sprinted toward the greenhouses.