By the time Harold stepped out of the castle, the sky had already gone completely dark. He quickened his pace, and by the time he reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest, he could see Hagrid off in the distance, waving his arms and shouting into the woods.
"Shoo! Go on, you nasty thing, get out of here!"
It looked like he was chasing off some kind of creature.
"Hagrid," Harold called out, walking up.
"Harold?" Hagrid turned around, clearly surprised. "You shouldn't be out this late. Get back inside, quick."
"I actually came to find you," Harold said.
"Professor Snape wants you to come to his office," Harold said. "Do you have time now?"
"Ah, 'course I do. I've been waitin' for him to call me, actually," Hagrid said. He didn't seem the least bit confused—like he'd known this visit was coming.
"You wait here. We'll go together," he added, then ducked into his hut to change into that infamous mole-hide coat of his.
"I figured Snape'd send that old codger Filch to get me," Hagrid's voice rumbled from inside. "Didn't expect he'd send you."
"Maybe I just happened to be in his office," Harold replied. "What were you doing just now?"
"Chasin' off a cat," Hagrid said, emerging with a lantern in hand. "We saw it in the Forbidden Forest. Fang just barked at it once, and it scratched him up good. Then it chased him out and nearly bit his ear off."
As if it had understood Hagrid was going out, the cabin was suddenly filled with loud whimpering and the sound of claws scratching at the floorboards.
Through the gap in the door, Harold caught a glimpse of a hulking black dog—probably a Newfoundland or maybe a Neapolitan Mastiff. It was hard to tell in the dark.
"Don't let his size fool ya. He's a real scaredy-cat... Calm down, Fang, I'll be back soon." Hagrid spent quite a while comforting the beast before finally managing to close the door.
He double-checked every latch and crevice before descending the stone steps with Harold.
Harold looked a little off, his expression strange and his gaze shifty. He kept avoiding Hagrid's eyes.
Come to think of it, he hadn't seen his own cat, Tom, in quite some time. And that vengeful, never-forget-a-slight nature Hagrid was describing...
Harold shook his head quickly.
No matter how timid Fang was, he was massive. Tom wouldn't even reach past one of his legs. There was no way a cat like Tom could scare him that badly.
Couldn't be. The one chasing Fang had to be a kneazle from the Forbidden Forest.
Still, feeling a bit guilty, Harold changed the subject.
"Hagrid, what's Professor Snape need you for anyway? Why so late? Couldn't it wait till morning?"
"That wicked cat... I mean—Snape said the same thing," Hagrid muttered. "But I figured it'd be better to avoid students seein' anything. This time o' night is perfect."
He didn't seem to realize what he'd just revealed.
But with Harold's question, Hagrid had already lost interest in the cat and was now fussing with the fit of his mole-hide coat.
"That bone's too long. Can't quite hide it. Would be a waste to break it though."
Harold frowned, thinking hard.
Was he talking about the one behind the desk?
But why would Snape have bones in his office? And that massive club by the door...
It was the troll— the one Quirrell had let into the castle on Halloween, the one that had ended up locked in with the three-headed dog, Fluffy.
A slow, lumbering troll, facing a vicious, wounded Fluffy up close? The outcome was obvious.
And the remains? Trolls were magical creatures—valuable ones. The school wouldn't just throw it away, and they definitely weren't giving it back to Quirrell.
The answer was obvious: Snape had claimed it.
Looking back, most of those bizarre potion ingredients in his office did seem to resemble parts of a troll.
And troll bones were known for being incredibly tough—nearly impossible to cut or grind—making them more or less useless in potions. Naturally, they'd fall to Hagrid to "take care of."
Harold's eyes lit up.
If that was true, then everything suddenly made sense: why Snape had the troll's club, why Hagrid was summoned late at night.
I mean, who wants to be seen lugging around bones in broad daylight? The source of this content ɪs 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵~𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖~𝙣𝙚𝙩
Harold looked up quickly. "Hagrid..."
"Yeah?" Hagrid asked.
"Nothing," Harold hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "I was just going to say—we're almost there."
They'd reached the castle steps and were walking inside.
"Right then, off to bed with you." Hagrid waved him off and started heading toward the dungeons.
But Harold didn't go to the dorms. He stayed right there.
It was a cold November night. Even the candles along the great stone walls seemed to give off no heat.
He ran into Filch too. The caretaker was clearly unhappy about a student wandering the halls so late, but it wasn't curfew yet, so all he could do was glower at Harold from the shadows.
Harold suddenly missed Tom. He had no idea where that little hellcat had vanished off to. Maybe it was time to have him bond with Mrs. Norris a bit—two kindred spirits.
They stared each other down in silence for several minutes.
Then Hagrid finally came back up the stairs.
He had a huge sack slung over one shoulder, one hand gripping the massive troll club, and the other... also holding something, though it was covered with a large bed sheet, so Harold couldn't tell what it was.
"Harold? You still here?" Hagrid asked, then spotted Filch lurking nearby.
Hagrid's tone changed instantly.
"Back off. He's not breakin' any rules," he growled, as though chasing off a rat.
Filch scowled and mumbled something under his breath before stomping away.
"Don't worry about that old codger. He won't dare do nothin'," Hagrid said.
Harold waved it off—he wasn't bothered. His eyes were glued to Hagrid's hands.
"Hagrid, is that... a troll bone?"
"Yup..." Hagrid answered instinctively—then immediately clammed up.
"I mean—how do you know that? None of your business. Now go back to your dorm!"
But Harold wasn't budging. He hadn't stuck around just to see Hagrid insult Filch.
"Where are you taking them?"
"I can't tell you... Alright, fine, I've got to dispose of them. Don't ask any more."
He turned around to leave, but the wind caught the sheet in his hand, lifting it just enough to reveal a glimpse of bleached white bone.
Judging by the length of the sheet, the bone must have been nearly five feet long, thick as a python, glowing under the moonlight.
Harold's eyes lit up like searchlights.
He might've even started drooling.
What a treasure. What a glorious treasure!
Snape, that reckless fool, that absolute cauldron-obsessed moron... How could he even think of throwing this away?