That afternoon was the practical portion of the Transfiguration exam. Students waited in the corridor outside the classroom, entering one by one when their names were called.
The second-year task was to transfigure a rabbit into a pair of slippers—yes, two slippers from one rabbit.
If you only produced one slipper, or if the result still had rabbit fur, ears, or other identifiable features, points would be deducted.
Clean transfiguration got you an A (Acceptable), matching slipper color earned you an E (Exceeds Expectations), and adding ornate patterns would snag you an O (Outstanding).
Harold was near the middle of the list. When he entered the classroom, the first thing he saw was… something unrecognizable on the floor.
It looked like a slipper—but it had a full rabbit's head. And it was twitching.
Clearly a failed attempt. Definitely a T (Troll-level fail).
Professor McGonagall waved her wand, and the strange creature turned back into a normal rabbit.
"You may begin," she said.
Harold nodded, flicked his wand, and in an instant, the rabbit turned into a pair of blue beach slippers, complete with a detailed depiction of Hogwarts Castle on top.
"Oh, excellent work," praised Professor Marchbanks nearby. "Your Transfiguration is clearly well-practiced."
Harold smiled modestly. After all, he'd done little else this past year besides studying Transfiguration.
Professor McGonagall didn't even wait for the result—she'd already drawn a big O on the grading sheet the moment Harold raised his wand.
She was right to be confident. The transformation was flawless. Even the ever-critical Marchbanks couldn't find fault. She mused privately that even Dumbledore's performance back in the day had been about on par with this.
Unfortunately, as the chief examiner, she couldn't stay with the lower years. Still, she was tempted to pop in on Harold's Charms exam next.
Harold hadn't expected to leave such a "Dumbledore-level" impression.
But after Transfiguration, the rest of his results were more modest—respectable, but not exceptional.
In Charms, Professor Flitwick had them enlarge a raspberry, then turn it into a glass of iced juice—testing their Engorgement, Squeeze, and Freezing Charms.
Harold managed, but didn't quite fill the glass. He earned an E (Exceeds Expectations).
In Potions, Snape assigned them a Forgetfulness Potion. Thanks to his experience brewing magical protection solutions, Harold scraped an O from Snape… though he didn't know it yet.
After the exam, Harold was nervous—worried Snape might sabotage his grade over the whole basilisk fang and eye debacle.
It wasn't entirely his fault—one eye had been crushed by Hagrid, mixed into a puddle of basilisk blood. The other eye, still intact, would've been a shame to waste, so Harold kept it in his lizard-hide pouch.
He hadn't dared take it out since—it was too dangerous, and he wasn't sure if the curse effect still lingered.
The fangs, though—he took those out often. And the more he looked at them, the more he liked them.
Snape probably had one too—the fang that had ended up embedded in a painting in the Entrance Hall had mysteriously vanished. Word was Snape shamelessly claimed it.
Next came the Herbology practical in the greenhouses—repotting mandrakes.
Then Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Everyone thought the exam would be canceled, considering their professor was in St. Mungo's and probably on his way to Azkaban after that.
But no—the exam was happening.
To everyone's astonishment, the Wizarding Examinations Authority had scrambled together a written test, entirely based on Lockhart's seven books.
Of course, they didn't ask about his "favorite color" or "secret ambition." The questions focused on actual magical content.
Like: "Why can a tea strainer trap a ghoul?" Or: "What spell repels a werewolf?"
Credit to the W.E.A.—those elderly witches and wizards must've pulled an all-nighter reading Lockhart's books to create that test.
Thankfully, Lockhart had spent most of the year reading aloud and staging reenactments. Even Ron, who'd never cracked open the books, expected to get a decent mark.
As for Harry, monster-hunter extraordinaire—he figured an O was in the bag.
When the final exam—History of Magic—wrapped up, a wave of relief and cheering surged through Hogwarts.
Exams were done. Grades would take a week to arrive, and until then, they were free to enjoy themselves. Nothing could be sweeter.
Gryffindor held an epic party in their common room. Tables were pushed together and piled with cakes, cookies, sweets, and—somehow—butterbeer. Everyone wore pajamas. The celebration lasted all night.
Harold didn't forget about Tom.
"Here, try this—I promised you, remember?" Harold placed a strange-colored hunk of meat before him with a grin. "Madam Pomfrey checked it. Said it's fine."
Back during the Halloween incident, Tom had yowled a warning that saved Harold from looking into the basilisk's eyes. Harold had promised then that one day, he'd let Tom try basilisk meat.
This was it—a chunk from the upper jaw, still attached to one of the fangs. Unsure if it was still poisonous, Harold had it inspected first.
Madam Pomfrey hadn't asked any questions—just gave it a clean bill of health.
When Harold pulled the meat out, Tom's fur bristled instantly, and he let out a series of anxious cries. Only after Harold explained did Tom cautiously pad over and nibble it.
He ate with effort—clearly not delicious—but he still finished it, even licking his paws and mouth after.
"You're probably the only pet cat in history to eat basilisk," Harold chuckled, scratching Tom's chin. "Oh, and good news—no one's gonna fight you over that name anymore."
Tom looked up, confused by what was supposed to be good news. But Harold didn't explain. He was just a cat, after all—no point.
Later, Harold visited Hagrid and Fluffy in the Forbidden Forest. Thanks to Fawkes' tears, both were already healed.
In honor of Fluffy's valiant role in defeating the basilisk, Dumbledore granted special permission for him to remain near the forest's edge for a while.
Hagrid was thrilled—he no longer had to trek deep into the forest to visit Fluffy.
The centaurs weren't happy, muttering among themselves—but really, who cared?
When Harold arrived, Hagrid beamed and led him straight to Fluffy.
Fluffy was sleeping. Harold took one look and nearly jumped.
In just a few days, the beast looked even bigger. Especially those three heads—like three locomotive engines.
"Do they really grow this fast?" Harold asked, stunned.
"Not usually," Hagrid admitted. "Twenty feet's about the max for most. But the Headmaster said Fluffy accidentally ate the basilisk's heart and gallbladder. Those parts are very powerful." Thᴇ link to the origɪn of this information rᴇsts ɪn 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝✦𝘧𝙞𝙧𝙚✦𝕟𝕖𝕥
"That fast, though?" Harold muttered. "Even eating a dragon's heart wouldn't do that… or wait, has anyone ever tried feeding a three-headed dog a dragon heart?"
"Fluffy did eat them, I saw it myself," Hagrid sighed. "He just gobbles anything down. I'm worried he'll get a stomachache."
"Uh-huh…" Harold eyed the snoring giant. He doubted "upset stomach" was ever a concern for Fluffy.