Whether it was the shared trauma of losing house points or just the natural flow of things, after Halloween, Harry, Hermione, and Ron started spending noticeably more time together.
Though Ron and Hermione still bickered occasionally, their relationship was becoming solid enough that they were almost inseparable. At the very least, after Halloween, they always sat together in class.
The trio was beginning to take form.
Harold found it all pretty fascinating... maybe it was fate at work. Despite a few hiccups, Harry had ended up finding his external brain after all.
Then there was that whole incident in the fourth-floor room... Harold had assumed the school would at least launch a symbolic investigation. But nope—nothing. The professors were either covering it up or had agreed silently to pretend it never happened.
Even when students asked questions, all they got was some nonsense about it being one of Peeves' pranks.
It was as if the whole thing had never happened.
Well, except for Quirrell. He'd taken time off, disappearing from class for days. Snape filled in, and he made sure to inform everyone smugly, "Your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor has been frightened by a prank and needs rest."
The disdain in his voice was palpable.
Snape actually seemed to be in a rather good mood during those days. He even cracked a few jokes at Quirrell's expense in class.
But that didn't apply to Harry—Snape's dislike for him seemed stronger than ever, regardless of the subject. If Defense class ever needed a student assistant, Harry was guaranteed the job. And if it didn't, Snape would make something up.
Every morning, Harry's first act was to check the schedule. If he saw Defense or Potions on it, he'd curse Snape for five full minutes and then mope around for the rest of the day.
In a twisted way, Harry was probably the only student in all of Hogwarts praying for Quirrell's speedy recovery.
After all, as boring as Quirrell's classes were, they were less painful than being targeted by Snape.
Harold had to admit—Snape's lessons were much more engaging. Most students agreed.
Apparently, someone was listening to Harry's prayers, because by the second week, Quirrell was back in the castle.
Only, he seemed even weirder than before. Most noticeable was the smell.
He already reeked of garlic, but now there was the added stench of rotten onions.
"This is something I learned in a wizarding tribe," Quirrell explained during one class. "The smell wards off multi-headed magical creatures."
Harold had a pretty good guess who he was referring to—Fluffy, the three-headed dog.
Harry had told him all about that night. He didn't know every detail, but the bit about Quirrell being scared out of his mind and vomiting all the way from the fourth floor to the infirmary? That part was crystal clear.
Honestly, the fact he'd managed to vomit for that long might've been his only magical talent.
Quirrell, of course, wouldn't admit any of it. When Ron had asked what really happened, Quirrell turned red, mumbled a few nonsense words, muttered something about "Care of Magical Creatures" and "colleagues not to be trusted," and then quickly changed the subject to the weather and the kitchen's supply of onions.
The class had erupted into laughter. The mood was bright, even if the lesson was dull.
Unfortunately, none of this changed the fact that Defense class was back to being a snore.
And so, Hogwarts slid quietly into November.
The weather turned colder, and most students had switched to heavier robes and cloaks.
Harry had become especially busy lately. The Quidditch season was starting, and his team trained three times a week, each session lasting over two hours.
As a complete beginner, Harry had to put in even more time than the others. He was always rushing off to practice and coming back late.
Luckily, first-year classes were relatively light. Between sessions, he managed to finish his homework—though that was mostly thanks to Hermione.
Harry was now endlessly grateful to have Hermione as a friend. Under the promise of shared homework, he'd ditched Ron without hesitation and pledged allegiance to Hermione.
Ron sulked for days, until Harry "accidentally" slid Hermione's corrected homework in front of him.
After that, Ron gave up resisting. He surrendered completely.
Hermione's personality might not win any popularity contests, but if she was willing to do your homework? She instantly became the most beloved witch in all of Hogwarts. No question.
Harold didn't hang around the now-solid trio much. Over the last few days, he'd been using the school's owlery to purchase wand-making materials through his own connections.
Originally, he'd planned to ask his grandfather Ollivander for help—it would've been cheaper and far more convenient—but the owls couldn't find him.
The owl he'd hired for three hazelnuts had flown in a circle and returned with the letter unopened.
Harold wasn't shocked.
Ever since he'd sent that wand with the Redcap nerve core, his grandfather had started acting oddly—like, really oddly. For three days in a row, he sent back blank parchment.
Not enchanted parchment. Not special invisible ink. Just blank sheets.
Then he disappeared entirely. Even the owls couldn't find him.
With no other option, Harold had been forced to spend his own money.
Luckily, the materials weren't too expensive. And Malfoy's down payment had come in handy.
Speaking of Malfoy… he still hadn't reached out again. It was as if he'd completely forgotten.
And so Harold waited.
A few days later, around midday, he finally received the long-awaited package.
At the time, he happened to be chatting with Hagrid near the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
Hagrid had been collecting some pretty good stuff lately—five strands of unicorn tail hair, a bundle of centaur hair, several hippogriff feathers, and three spider legs, each two feet long.
Staring at all that prime material, Harold couldn't help but feel a little guilty. Maybe blowing up Fluffy's mouth with that wand had been a bit... excessive.
Just then, a package smacked him square in the shoulder.
A scruffy gray owl dropped a thick brown parcel and flew off without a glance.
The delivery was rude, but Harold didn't care.
When you were dealing with Knockturn Alley suppliers, as long as they delivered, customer service didn't matter.
"What was in that big package?" Hagrid asked.
"Doggie Silence Stick…" Harold blurted out instinctively.
"Ah—nothing!" Harold quickly waved it off. "I'd better go. I'll visit again this weekend."