Dumbledore must have sensed how tired the students were. As soon as the last plate of orange pudding disappeared, he gave the evening announcements with record brevity, led everyone in a rushed rendition of the school song, and then announced the feast officially over.
Harold followed the crowd back to the familiar Gryffindor common room. He headed upstairs to the dorm he'd stayed in the previous year, now with a fresh "Second Year" plaque nailed to the door.
Same room. Harold was rather pleased. He'd disassembled and reassembled the furniture here so many times it felt like home. There was a certain affection in that familiarity.
Inside the round room, his suitcase was already waiting by the desk.
He'd originally planned to write to his grandfather as usual, but after uncapping his ink bottle and unfurling the parchment, he changed his mind. Garrick and Gregorovitch were probably deep in some forest by now. It was doubtful an owl could even reach them. Better to wait until they returned.
Harold lay down on his bed and quickly drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, Hogwarts still buzzed with the excitement of a new term. Despite Lockhart's absurd antics at the feast, most students remained hopeful—and some, like Hermione, even steadfast in their admiration for him.
She and Ron had been arguing about it in the common room earlier, and now they weren't speaking to each other.
Harold, of course, took Hermione's side. Through her, he even got to know a few more of Lockhart's devoted fans. The end result? He successfully sold that signed, Lockhart-certified "First Edition of Magical Me" to a seventh-year Ravenclaw girl—for fifty Galleons.
He'd only meant to show off the book, but the girl was so thrilled and generous (offering ten times its value!) that Harold couldn't think of a good reason to say no.
The transaction took some time, and Harold had to skip breakfast to avoid being late. He dashed off to the greenhouses for his first class of the year: Herbology.
Professor Sprout was a plump witch with wispy hair tucked beneath a patched hat. She was kindly and, thankfully, didn't scold Harold for arriving right as the bell rang. She just told him to quickly find a spot.
Still panting, Harold dropped beside Hermione, who immediately whispered, "Couldn't you have waited until lunch break to deliver the book?"
She'd wanted that book too, but her allowance couldn't compete with that seventh-year girl's budget. And no matter how much she adored Lockhart, she wasn't about to pay fifty Galleons for a five-Galleon title.
"Sooner is better," Harold muttered between breaths. "Once they've had a taste of Lockhart's class, no one will want it anymore."
"Nothing. What's Professor Sprout asking?"
"She's asking about the properties of mandrakes," Hermione said, raising her hand instantly.
Amazing. Harold leaned back to avoid her elbow. How did she manage to listen, talk, and raise her hand all at once?
Mandrakes—Harold was quite familiar with those. He touched his sleeve; he'd used mandrake sap when crafting his Mystic-Pattern Chameleon pouch.
He'd bought a tiny bottle from the apothecary in Diagon Alley—five Galleons for just a few drops. At that price, it might as well have been liquid dragon's blood.
"Ten points to Gryffindor," said Professor Sprout.
Hermione had gotten it right, obviously.
Professor Sprout was quite generous. Transfiguration usually only awarded three points per correct answer, Charms five—Potions, of course, rarely awarded anything. But ten points in one go? Sprout was unrivaled.
"And why are mandrakes dangerous?"
Hermione shot her hand up again. "Because their cry is fatal."
"Exactly. Another ten points."
Twenty points already!
In just one class! For comparison, Harry had only earned fifty points for defeating Voldemort.
Hufflepuff sure had a great professor—kind and generous with house points.
Harold earned ten points himself for being the first to repot a mandrake.
He hadn't meant to show off. While yanking his mandrake free, he'd been absentmindedly wondering how much juice it could produce and accidentally pinched one of its root tendrils too hard.
The mandrake shrieked and instantly went limp, then scurried into its new pot without resistance.
Everyone else was still wrestling theirs when Harold stepped back, finished.
After class, the Gryffindor second-years were in high spirits.
"Thirty points in one go! At this rate, we'll win the House Cup again this year!" Ron beamed.
"Don't forget Snape," said Harry gloomily. "Losing points is way easier than gaining them."
Right. He'd completely forgotten about that biased, point-deducting menace.
All those earned points might vanish after just one Potions lesson. How depressing.
Thankfully, no Potions today.
The dirt-streaked Gryffindors returned to the castle. Some rushed off to shower, others cast Cleaning Charms and hurried to their next class—Transfiguration.
Harold took this class particularly seriously. He sat bolt upright, copying everything Professor McGonagall said. His behavior stunned Ron and Harry.
"Is that really Harold?" Ron nudged Harry. "He's acting like there's two Hermiones now."
"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing," said Harry, wiping his glasses.
Harold wasn't a slacker, but he was never this diligent. Usually, he sat in the back, quietly sketching incomprehensible symbols on parchment while the professors weren't looking.
But now? Back straight, eyes shining, scribbling furiously… even Hermione couldn't look more focused.
After class, he even stayed behind to ask Professor McGonagall a question.
Ron felt a deep sense of dread. He didn't mind Hermione being top of the class—he was used to it. But if Harold joined her? That would be unbearable.
Apparently, Professor McGonagall was just as unsettled.
"Mr. Ollivander, I admire your ambition, but I suggest taking things one step at a time," she said, eyeing the button in Harold's hand.
It didn't have any beetle legs, but the texture on it exactly mimicked beetle carapace.
"I feel I must warn you," she added sternly. "Animagus Transfiguration is no trivial matter. Many wizards who've failed retain animal traits permanently—tails, pupils, and some never regain human form."
"I completely understand the risks, Professor," Harold replied. "I don't intend to rush. I just want to prepare in advance—perhaps you could recommend some reading?"
Professor McGonagall studied him carefully.
"May I ask why? What prompted your interest in Animagus transformation? It's rarely used in daily life."
"Because I want to become an excellent wandmaker," Harold said. "I'll probably have to visit all kinds of forests in the future, and being able to turn into an animal would be very helpful."
She fell silent, suddenly reminded of Garrick Ollivander.
In the 20th century, only seven Animagi were officially registered with the Ministry. Garrick had been one of them—and he'd registered before she had.
She recalled his Animagus form: a white-fronted capuchin monkey, ideal for navigating dense forests.
That alone made Harold's explanation seem entirely plausible.
In her understanding, wandmakers often dealt with magical creatures and roamed the wilderness. Being an Animagus would be immensely beneficial.
Still, twelve years old was far too young.
Garrick had registered in 1930—he'd been nearly thirty himself. Harold had just started second year.
"Very well. I'll recommend a few books," McGonagall said at last. "But you must promise—under no circumstances are you to attempt the transformation on your own."
"Of course," Harold agreed instantly.
"I'll give you the reading list this afternoon," she added. "And when the time is right, I'll help you with the transformation."
With a complicated expression, she left the classroom.
Two sneaky figures darted past the door.
"Weasley? Potter?" she called, seeing their backs. But she didn't press it. Read full story at 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭•𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚•𝕟𝕖𝕥
She meant to return to her office, but halfway there, she changed course and exited the castle.
She found Professor Sprout working in the greenhouses and warned her to keep an eye on the mandrakes—especially to prevent students from secretly plucking the leaves.
To attempt Animagus transformation, one had to hold a fresh mandrake leaf in their mouth for an entire month.
Harold had promised not to attempt it on his own—but no one knew better than McGonagall how fragile a Gryffindor promise could be.
So she took precautions.
Fresh mandrake leaves were hard to preserve. Most on the market were dried or powdered.
Which meant if Harold was planning something reckless, the greenhouse was his only viable source.
Once that was handled, McGonagall finally felt a bit more at ease.
For the first time, she found herself thinking: maybe too much diligence from a student wasn't a good thing after all.
Maybe being a Hermione-type was plenty.