The next day, classes resumed at Hogwarts.
First period was Care of Magical Creatures. Thanks to a particularly massive three-headed dog "assistant," this class drew polar-opposite opinions among students. Some adored it, thrilled to be near such a rare beast without the fear of getting bitten.
Most, however, weren't nearly as brave. They'd give anything to switch out of the course if it were allowed.
But there was no changing schedules this late in the year. So they gritted their teeth and made their way to the grounds.
Perhaps Professor McGonagall's constant appeals had worked—this time, the towering beast was nowhere in sight. Instead, they found several blazing bonfires crackling merrily on the frozen field.
As they got closer, they noticed flickers of movement in the flames—something darting in and out, making the fire dance and flare unpredictably.
"Anyone know what this is?" asked Hagrid. Having spent half the school year as a professor now, he was no longer nearly as nervous as before. In fact, he was starting to sound like a real teacher.
As he posed the question, his gaze instinctively drifted toward Hermione.
Sure enough, her hand shot up.
"Very good, Miss Granger."
"Fire crabs," Hermione answered.
"Spot on! Five points to Gryffindor," said Hagrid with a beaming smile.
"Tch..." a strange noise came from the crowd. Hagrid thought at first it was another Slytherin stirring trouble—but when he turned, he saw it was Ron.
Thinking he might've imagined it, Hagrid glanced again, only to confirm it—Ron and Hermione weren't even standing together.
Had they had a falling out?
Hagrid made a mental note of it, though this wasn't the time to ask. He waited until the students were off gathering sticks and leaves for their fires before casually sidling up to Harry and whispering,
"What's goin' on with you lot and Hermione?"
"It's nothing," Harry mumbled, avoiding his gaze. "Just… a difference of opinion."
He couldn't bring himself to explain the whole thing. What was he supposed to say? That Hermione had made the right decision to protect him—and they were mad at her for it?
He understood the logic. But sometimes, emotions didn't obey reason.
Seeing Harry hesitate, Hagrid didn't press.
After class, the students reluctantly left the warm bonfires behind.
On a cold, damp January morning, sitting by the fire watching fire crabs was about as enjoyable as class got. A tankard of butterbeer would've made it perfect.
Second period was Divination. Professor Trelawney was still her usual self—mystical and vague. When Harold mentioned wanting to buy a crystal ball, she refused him outright.
She insisted that every true Seer must use a crystal ball that calls to them—one that could not be purchased.
"Then what, we make it ourselves?" Harold asked. "Because I don't know how."
This time, Trelawney said nothing. She simply gazed at him through her thick glasses, her expression unreadable.
"Don't waste your time," Harry said as they left the tower. "She's just putting on a show. If what she said were true, why are there so many crystal balls in her classroom?"
"Yeah," Harold agreed. "And there are shops in Diagon Alley that sell them. They can't all be for decoration."
Still, despite the professor's theatrics, Harold had grown fond of the particular crystal ball he used in class. It just… felt right in his hands.
That afternoon, while others got a break after lunch, Harold had to drag himself to Ancient Runes—his weekly class on the third floor.
The professor, Bathsheda Babbling, was a very stylish witch. Unlike most wizards and witches who stuck to traditional robes, she favored jeans and fashionable jackets.
Her outfits would've turned heads even in the Muggle world.
Despite this, her class was practically empty. Even with all four houses combined, they couldn't fill half the smallest classroom.
Third-year Runes focused on recognizing and translating ancient texts—something Harold had already mastered years ago.
So class was unbearably dull.
To pass the time, he often did homework or fiddled with other projects. Professor Babbling didn't mind, so long as he didn't make a fuss or cause a scene.
Today's assignment was to translate a medieval biography of the witch Cliodna.
Harold finished his translation in twenty minutes, then set the parchment aside and moved on to his Care of Magical Creatures homework: "On the Relationship Between Fire Crabs and Flames."
He was finishing that too just as the period ended.
Only then did someone else finally complete the translation.
Hermione set down her quill and rubbed her temples, clearly drained.
She had taken far too many subjects, and Ancient Runes turned out to be harder than expected. After every class, her head felt like it might burst.
"You should consider dropping one or two electives," Harold suggested gently. "You look like you didn't even get a Christmas break. What were you doing the past two weeks?"
"Homework. And reading ahead," Hermione replied, then glanced up at him. "I thought you weren't speaking to me either."
"I'm not that into Quidditch," Harold shrugged.
"Then do you think I was wrong?" she asked suddenly, turning serious. "Should I not have told Professor McGonagall about the Firebolt?"
"Half and half," Harold said thoughtfully.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I mean… you're both right in your own ways," he replied. "That broom probably was from Sirius Black."
"You think so too, don't you?" Hermione said brightly, heartened by his words. "Then I had to tell the professor, didn't I?"
Her mood visibly lifted. She gave Harold a pleased look.
"You really are more rational than the others. All they care about is Quidditch. They never once considered Harry's safety—not even Harry himself!"
"Don't get ahead of yourself," Harold cut in, waving his hand.
"I'm telling you, that Firebolt is completely safe."
"Why?" Hermione frowned, her tone suddenly defensive. "You just said you think Sirius Black sent it. How could he not have done something to it?"
"Because the Firebolt was delivered by Quality Quidditch Supplies," Harold said bluntly. Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by N0v3l.Fiɾe.net
"…What?" Hermione blinked, thrown completely off-guard.
"I mean, their staff received the order form and the gold, and then sent the broom directly to Hogwarts," Harold repeated. "Everyone in Diagon Alley knows about it. That broom came straight from the shop to the school, and no one else ever touched it—not even for a second.
"There's no way anyone could've tampered with it."