After leaving Professor McGonagall's office, Harold couldn't help glancing back.
He hadn't expected it to go so smoothly. He'd thought the reason Gryffindor had five students per dorm was due to a lack of space.
Turns out, not at all.
Satisfied, Harold turned and headed toward the tower.
The corridor was eerily silent, no one in sight. The only sound was the echo of his own footsteps across the empty halls.
At some point, a gaunt, scraggly cat appeared in the middle of his path.
It was thin—unnaturally so. Its fur was dull and patchy, and its eyes bulged like twin lightbulbs.
He'd had the feeling all day that he'd forgotten something—and now it hit him.
Before the Sorting, he'd dropped Tom to the ground, and then… nothing. He hadn't seen him since.
But after only a moment's thought, Harold shrugged and kept walking.
If we're talking about Tom, it's probably the other pets who should be worried. He had a feeling that cat could survive just fine even in the Forbidden Forest.
Harold wanted to keep moving, but not everyone else did.
The scruffy cat started trailing after him, occasionally letting out loud, mournful yowls. A few minutes later, a skinny, sallow man stepped out from the end of the corridor.
"Aha—student out of bed…"
"I just came from Professor McGonagall's office," Harold cut him off, "If you don't believe me, go ask her. Also, side note—your cat can't read clocks. But can't you? There are still ten minutes left until curfew."
Whatever Filch had been about to say caught in his throat. His face turned a sickly green.
Harold didn't care. He simply walked around him and continued down the hall.
"Don't let me catch you again…" came the muttered threat behind him.
"Thanks for the heads-up," Harold replied without looking back.
The new dormitory was in the first-year area, neat and spotless.
Though he was exhausted after a full day on the train, Harold still sat down to write a letter to his grandfather, updating him on the Sorting and the single dorm he'd secured for wand-making.
At the end, he added a note asking his grandfather to pass the news along to his parents, who were currently abroad. Since he wasn't sure if Hogwarts owls could cross oceans, he'd send it through the owl post office.
By the time he finished, Harold thought about working on an unfinished wand nearby—but sleep was already pulling at him. He barely made it to the closest bed before crashing out.
Harold was up early. He delivered his letter at the owlery and grabbed breakfast in the Great Hall. ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭•𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮•𝘯𝘦𝘵
Hermione and Neville were already there. Hermione seemed the same as always, but Neville was acting strange—quiet when Harold greeted him, and then spent the entire meal pointedly avoiding eye contact.
Even Hermione noticed.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"N-nothing…" Neville shook his head, but after several minutes of internal struggle, he finally looked at Harold and asked, with surprising firmness, "Do you… look down on us?"
The question hit like a weight. Neville's voice shook, his eyes were red, but his expression was determined, his chin lifted stubbornly.
"What makes you think that?"
"We heard about you asking for a single room yesterday. Isn't it because you didn't want to room with us?"
"You guys… Wait, so you were supposed to be my roommates? Who else?"
"Harry, Ron, Seamus…" Neville listed.
"Oh. So it's you guys," Harold raised an eyebrow.
"You didn't know?" Neville blinked.
"Of course not," Harold said, buttering a slice of bread. "I didn't even go inside the dorm. Took one look from the hallway and went straight to Professor McGonagall. How would I know who was staying there?"
"Then… why switch dorms?"
"Hard to explain in a sentence or two," Harold replied. "But if you really want to know, come to my room at seven tonight. You'll understand then."
"We'll come," said a voice behind him—not Neville, but Harry and Ron, who'd just walked in and overheard.
Judging by their expressions, they weren't too pleased with Harold either—especially Ron, who muttered to Harry under his breath about how "pure-bloods are always …"
Hermione tried to lighten the mood by changing the subject. "Um, so… how did you guys deal with the moving staircases?"
"Easiest way is to follow an upper-year student," Harold said. "Or get a ghost to help. Nearly Headless Nick and the Fat Friar both work."
Interestingly, in every class that day, Neville, Harry, Ron, and Seamus all ignored Harold—like they'd agreed on it.
Harry had wanted to speak to him once or twice, but Ron kept pulling him away before he could.
Harold found the whole thing mildly amusing.
That evening, after finishing their astronomy lesson atop the tower, they all made their way back to the common room.
Just as they stepped inside, Fred and George were making a scene, eyes bright with excitement. Whatever they were talking about, it was clearly something good.
"Hey, did you hear?" one of the twins shouted when he spotted the new students. Laughing, he announced, "Last night, Mrs. Norris was attacked!"
"Who?" Harry blinked in confusion.
"Filch's cat," Ron supplied.
"Oh…" Harry nodded, remembering now. He and Ron had gotten lost on the fourth floor that morning and bumped into Filch—though not the cat.
"What happened to her?" someone asked eagerly.
Mrs. Norris was infamous for prowling the halls with Filch, always on the lookout for rule-breakers. Her success rate was terrifyingly high.
In the detention hall's hall of infamy, her name came second only to Filch's. Every student dreamed of getting rid of her—but no one dared.
Because, technically, Filch was school staff.
No one had expected a real hero to rise up this year.
"No idea," said Fred—Harold noticed his wand, so that confirmed it.
"But we don't think it was a student," George added. "We snuck into the hospital wing. Mrs. Norris had a broken leg, claw marks all over, and a huge patch of fur missing."
"Judging by the wounds, the hero must've been another… cat? Probably. But definitely not a student."
The room went quiet for a moment, clearly surprised by that theory.
"Come on—doesn't matter who did it. Today deserves celebrating!" Fred raised his arm.
George followed, "To the hero of Hogwarts!"
"Hope they do the same to Filch next!" someone added.
The twins stepped aside to reveal a spread of cookies, cakes, and Butterbeer.
"Whoa, where'd you get all this?" Ron's eyes lit up.
"I meant the Butterbeer."
"Oh, that?" George winked. "Secret."
The common room burst into celebration, and Harold found a bottle of Butterbeer handed to him.
But he wasn't in the mood to drink.
Mrs. Norris had been attacked—and the likely culprit was… another cat?
That sort of overbearing behavior… honestly, it felt kind of familiar.