Side-Along Apparition was far faster than a Portkey. By the time Harold opened his eyes again, he was already standing in Hogsmeade, right in front of the oak signboard of the Three Broomsticks.
"Come with me," said Professor McGonagall as she pushed open the door.
Though Hogwarts hadn't yet begun its term, the Three Broomsticks was still bustling. The pub was packed, every table filled.
Harold was still wondering why Professor McGonagall had brought him here, when the answer quite literally appeared before him—sitting there was a familiar silver beard.
It was Dumbledore, engaged in cheerful conversation with an elegant, striking woman.
That woman was Madam Rosmerta, the owner of the Three Broomsticks—a graceful, warm, and charming witch who had enchanted quite a few Hogwarts students over the years.
As they entered, Dumbledore was telling her a joke about a centaur and a troll stargazing together. Rosmerta was laughing so hard she nearly fell over.
"That's why I like the Three Broomsticks," Dumbledore said, sipping from his drink. "When I told that joke to Minerva and Severus, neither so much as twitched an eyebrow.
"If you ask me, a good sense of humor is just as essential for a professor as anything else. Those two are simply too stiff."
"My apologies, Headmaster Dumbledore," McGonagall said coolly as she walked over, "but it seems we differ in our views of what makes a good professor."
She turned to Rosmerta. "Good morning, Rosmerta."
"Good morning, Minerva," Rosmerta replied warmly. "The usual? A small violet cordial?"
"Thank you," McGonagall nodded. "And add a sparkling lemon soda as well, please."
Rosmerta now noticed Harold.
"A Hogwarts student?" she said, surprised. "Didn't you take the train?"
"He needed to return to the castle early for certain reasons," McGonagall answered vaguely.
Rosmerta didn't press, simply nodded and left to prepare the drinks.
"Good morning, Minerva—and to you as well, Mr. Ollivander," Dumbledore greeted them with a pleasant smile, as if nothing unusual had just occurred.
McGonagall sat down beside him and lowered her voice. "Albus, about the arrangements…"
"Of course. No problem at all," Dumbledore said. "The school's protective enchantments will be lifted at the right moment, and I'll assist however I can."
"With all due respect, Albus," McGonagall said mildly, "this may be one situation where your help isn't actually useful."
Dumbledore flushed faintly at that.
"So it's true, then?" he said, glancing past McGonagall at Harold. "He really completed every single step leading up to his Animagus transformation?"
"Absolutely," McGonagall said. "I even personally placed the potion inside the tree hollow."
"How did you do it?" Dumbledore asked Harold directly now, his bright blue eyes locked onto him. "How did you manage to sleep without spitting out the leaf?"
Harold could've sworn he saw a flicker of envy in Dumbledore's eyes.
Dumbledore… envious of him?
If word of this got out, no one would believe it—not even Harold himself.
"I'm not exactly sure how I did it," Harold said after a pause. "Maybe I was just so exhausted during the day that I slept deeper?"
"Really?" Dumbledore furrowed his brow and began seriously pondering the idea.
At that moment, Madam Rosmerta returned with their drinks—a small violet cordial and a sparkling lemon soda.
Harold took a sip and was pleasantly surprised by the taste. The fresh lemon aroma burst across his tongue instantly, pairing beautifully with the fizzy soda. It was easily one of the best drinks he'd ever had.
McGonagall sat beside him, sipping her violet cordial calmly, completely ignoring Dumbledore as he fell into a spiral of deep thought.
She knew perfectly well: no matter what trick Dumbledore tried, the leaf would be gone by morning. Every time.
And besides, he was over a hundred years old. No matter how active he was during the day, it wasn't going to make his sleep any better.
He should just stick to being a transfigured animal. Animagus magic wasn't happening.
While Rosmerta turned to serve other customers, McGonagall and Dumbledore had another quiet exchange. Harold didn't catch most of it, but he got the gist—McGonagall was asking Dumbledore to shift the center of the storm.
And to Harold's shock, he agreed.
Move the center of a storm? Was that even possible?
"It only takes a bit of finesse," Dumbledore said breezily, as if reading Harold's mind. "If you asked me to summon a storm, I couldn't. But shifting it slightly? That, I can manage."
He wiggled his fingers, and the light fixture on the ceiling slid slightly to the left, so the beam fell directly on Harold's face.
"," he added with a wink.
With everything settled, McGonagall drained the last of her cordial and left the pub with Harold, heading back to the castle.
The storm wasn't expected until late afternoon, and it was still morning—so Harold would be waiting around Hogwarts for the time being.
Unfortunately, most of his belongings were still on the train. Otherwise, he might've spent the time unpacking his dorm.
He glanced at his chameleon-hide pouch. Inside were about a dozen wands and some essential books—more than enough to keep him occupied.
Back in the common room on the eighth floor, the Fat Lady gave a startled shriek when she saw Harold, waking up a rather tipsy witch next to her.
"Term hasn't started yet," she said suspiciously.
"I know," Harold replied. "I came back early, but Professor McGonagall didn't give me the password."
"Minerva knows?" the Fat Lady hesitated, then swung open to reveal the round passageway behind her.
"All right then. Since it's not term yet, I'll let you in without a password. But once school starts—"
"I understand. Thank you."
Harold stepped through the tunnel into the familiar common room.
He was the only one there. He could sit in any armchair he wanted—or even push them all together and lie down across them.
Harold chose one by the window and opened a Transfiguration book.
Even though he wasn't really reading, just having the book open made him feel a little less anxious.
He stared out the window, wondering where the train was now… and whether the Dementors had boarded yet.
Probably not. It wasn't even noon yet. The Dementors had likely been scheduled to board near the end of the journey.
Then again, there would probably be a whole squad of Dementors patrolling the school grounds this year.
Harold looked out over the fields from the window. The sun cast a golden sheen across the landscape, with a few colorful wildflowers dotting the grass.
What a shame, he thought. Once the Dementors get here, all of this will vanish. The cold they give off will wither every plant in sight. Follow current novᴇls on 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡⁂𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚⁂𝙣𝙚𝙩
"I wonder if Dementors have a sense of direction…" Harold muttered, gently rubbing the ring on his finger. "What if one of them got lost in the Forbidden Forest… would the others even notice?"