In short, over the weekend, Harry's apprentices became the most popular people in the castle. Wherever they went, students crowded around them, eager to hear every detail of their trial and what the centaur tribe was really like.
Even Penelope, one of the more level-headed apprentices, had made it clear that the trial wasn't as glamorous as others imagined. The oppressive darkness, the fear it instilled, the strange phenomena in the Forbidden Forest at night, and especially the panic and despair when the Acromantulas attacked their group—none of it was pleasant. Yet, despite their warnings, they remained objects of envy among the other students.
Those who hadn't experienced it firsthand couldn't truly grasp the fear the apprentices described. Of course, it didn't help that some, like Ron, had a tendency to embellish their stories with a bit of artistic flair and exaggeration.
As a result, the student body grew wildly excited for Harry's yet-to-be-held class for first-stage students. Word had spread that Harry would select new apprentices during that lesson. This sparked a frenzy of preparation: some students crafted quirky wizarding talismans, Muggle-born witches and wizards gathered survival gear for the outdoors, and a few clever ones even sought out Professor Flitwick to learn offensive spells.
After all, no one was sure if Harry would arrange another trial.
This feverish atmosphere infected nearly everyone in the castle—nearly, except for Gilderoy Lockhart.
On Sunday morning, for the first time since the term began, it wasn't just female students swarming Lockhart with questions. Many male students gathered around him after breakfast, eager to learn a few tricks from the so-called adventure master.
After all, Lockhart was widely regarded in the British wizarding world as a seasoned adventurer, and even the boys who disliked him couldn't deny his reputation.
Undoubtedly, that Sunday morning was the happiest Lockhart had been since the start of term. Unfortunately, the bliss lasted only half a day.
By the afternoon, the students who had come hoping to learn wilderness survival skills or exclusive spells left utterly disappointed. They had endured an entire morning of Lockhart's self-aggrandizing tales—Merlin Medals, Most Charming Smile Awards, and recycled stories straight from his books. Admittedly, Lockhart's memory was impressive, but the students were let down. They hadn't come to hear that.
Please! They'd already read his books before the term started!
The adventures in them were indeed fascinating, and the magical knowledge expanded their understanding of the wizarding world—but those were just stories on a page!
As the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, shouldn't he teach them something not found in his books? Some unique spell only Lockhart could offer?
Every Hogwarts professor had their specialty, something they shared generously with students during lessons—even Harry, the youngest professor in history, was no exception.
Except for Lockhart.
By dinnertime, the students' opinion of Lockhart had shifted to that of a professor holding back his secrets. After comparing notes, they were shocked to realize Lockhart hadn't taught them a single new thing.
Seated at the staff table, Lockhart ate his meal while struggling to maintain his trademark smile. Even from up there, he could hear the students' less-than-flattering whispers about him—loud whispers, at that.
The joy of the morning was matched only by the misery of the afternoon. Lockhart wasn't oblivious to the students' gossip, but he knew his own limitations. He had nothing substantial to teach them… his true talents couldn't be revealed.
Watching Harry at the Gryffindor table, surrounded by students bombarding him with questions about his shamanism class even during dinner, Lockhart's eyes burned with jealousy.
"What's wrong, Professor Lockhart?" Snape sneered from beside him. "Why not share some of that 'exquisite magic' you're always boasting about? Hogwarts professors aren't like those hedge wizards out there."
"No need to worry about me, Severus," Lockhart replied with forced cheer, though his heart was bitter. "Lockhart always has a plan."
Hearing Lockhart use his first name so casually, Snape's face twisted as if he'd swallowed something foul, and he turned away in disgust.
People who could take sarcasm in stride and even throw it back were the kind Snape loathed most.
Uncharacteristically silent, Lockhart's gaze remained fixed on Harry.
…That wretched boy… stealing the attention that should be mine…
…Damn it…
…I want more… they should all be fawning over me…
The thoughts sprouted in Lockhart's heart, an echo of his true desires. He was certain of it.
No matter how much Harry might disapprove, for the apprentices themselves, yesterday had been a grand adventure—one worth commemorating and celebrating.
Harry didn't join in his apprentices' revelry. No longer seen as a student, he had extra responsibilities to bear—like facing Professor McGonagall's wrath.
"Letting a group of students cross the Forbidden Forest! At night, no less!" McGonagall's roar echoed through her office. "How dare you, Professor Potter?"
"The youngest among them was only twelve! They're not like you! They're just ordinary wizards!"
"Er, Dumbledore was secretly following them, and I asked Dotty and Ragehorn to keep watch," Harry said, feeling like he was standing in the eye of a storm. "Safety was never a concern."
"You can't guarantee everything! The world is full of accidents!" McGonagall looked so furious her hair seemed to float. "Was the Acromantula attack part of your plan?"
"You only mentioned in your lesson plan that apprentices mastering a second element needed a trial, but you never said it would involve crossing the Forbidden Forest at night to reach the centaur tribe!"
Merlin only knew how livid McGonagall had been when she woke up to learn Harry had led his apprentices through the Forbidden Forest the previous night.
"I must remind you, Professor Potter, most centaurs harbor distrust toward wizards—if I'm being precise, I'd call it hostility!" McGonagall glared at Harry. "What if one of them lost control? What if they harmed the students?"
"The wizarding world would lose its mind! The Ministry would jump at the chance to clear out the centaurs in the Forest! And that Rita Skeeter would be thrilled—deliriously so!"
"Calm down, Professor," Harry said with a weak laugh. "I was watching them the whole time. The elements would've protected them… if they faced any real mortal danger."
Harry could say to Dumbledore that apprentices couldn't be sheltered forever, but in front of McGonagall—he couldn't quite bring himself to say it.
"Mortal danger?!" McGonagall's voice rose even higher. "Students are here to learn, Harry! They don't need to take risks! They don't need to be put in harm's way—that's our responsibility as professors!"
Harry… raised his hands in surrender.
For the next half hour, he kept his mouth shut, not daring to argue further. He realized that no matter what he said, it would only add fuel to McGonagall's fire. Better to let the venerable professor vent her anger.
She lectured him for a full thirty minutes.
But when McGonagall, breathless, demanded to know his next steps and sternly warned him against repeating such a trial, Harry finally spoke.
"The centaur tribe has agreed to make this shamanic trial a new tradition, and Dumbledore has approved it."
Crash!
The moment the words left his mouth, Harry felt the floor of the Transfiguration office shift beneath him. Like a marble shot from a slingshot, he was propelled out the door, which slammed shut behind him, nearly clipping his nose.
There was no doubt—McGonagall had kicked him out. Harry belatedly realized it was probably mentioning Dumbledore's approval that had done it.
Standing there for a moment, Harry decided against knocking to inform McGonagall about the shamanism class's homework assignments. Best to let her cool off first.
Turning, he gave a quick smile to the students passing by who'd witnessed the scene, then hurried off.
Without a moment to celebrate surviving McGonagall's wrath, Harry rushed to Hagrid's hut.
A small mountain of sturdy logs was piled up beside the hut—materials Hagrid had prepared for Harry's new office. Hagrid was even more excited about Harry becoming his neighbor than Harry himself.
Despite Harry's protests that he didn't want to trouble Hagrid, the kind-hearted half-giant had joyfully gathered everything needed, not just because of James and Lily, but because Harry was a friend in his own right.
Which made Harry's current dilemma all the more awkward—he wasn't sure how to bring up the Acromantula situation.
What was he supposed to say? Hey, Hagrid, remember your eight-eyed, furry friend? Its descendants are my apprentices' next homework assignment—tell it to watch out.
"Hey! Harry? You're here?" Hagrid's voice broke Harry's thoughts as he turned and spotted him, waving enthusiastically.
"Oh, maybe I shouldn't call you that—Professor Potter, right?" Hagrid said, chuckling.
"No need for that, Hagrid," Harry said, shaking his head and setting his worries aside for now. He walked toward Hagrid. "You didn't go up to the castle today?"
"Nope," Hagrid said cheerfully. "Been busy since I heard you're moving out here. Good thing it wasn't too tough to sort this out—anyway, how was your first class of the term? Your own class, I mean."
No wonder Hagrid wasn't worried. News of the Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest had spread everywhere—Hagrid would've heard if he'd visited the castle.
"It went well," Harry said, still mulling over how to broach the subject. "All the apprentices successfully bonded with the fire element. They don't even need wands to light a fireplace anymore."
"That's something, isn't it?" Hagrid laughed heartily. "At least it wasn't like last year when the whole school drank your potion, and only twelve saw Dotty."
"True," Harry nodded. "Compared to others, the first batch of apprentices are gifted. I never doubted they'd connect with the fire element."
"That's right," Hagrid said, tossing the last log onto the pile with a grin. "They're a special lot. Honestly, I wouldn't mind having an earth elemental like Dotty to help out—they look mighty strong."
"You should give it another go this year," Harry said, patting Hagrid's arm warmly. "You've got the look of a true orcish shaman—the kind who wears plate armor. Even Garrosh Hellscream wouldn't complain."
"Oi, I'm no orc, and I don't know any Hellscream… sounds like a dodgy name," Hagrid muttered. "But if you don't mind, I'd like to try again—anyway, fancy a drink tonight?"
His beady eyes sparkled with excitement.
"Why not?" Harry grinned. "I'll bring some fine wine I found in the Potter family cellar. You'll love it."
"Really?" Hagrid rubbed his hands together eagerly. "That's grand news—I'll get some stew ready. Or would you rather have roast?"
"Roast," Harry said without a moment's hesitation. "I prefer roast."
Hagrid's cooking was… an acquired taste, especially his stews, which had a certain kobold-stew charm.
Quintessential British cuisine, if you will.
For the friendly dinner, Hagrid invited Hermione and a few others. Naturally, the younger ones weren't allowed any wine.
"Grog!" Hagrid set his cup down, wincing as if in pain. After a long moment, he let out a loud belch. "Blimey, this wine's got some years on it—burns like fel fire."
"Don't like it?" Harry asked.
"Are you kidding? I love it!" Hagrid roared with laughter, his voice like thunder.
That was the charm of this wizarding wine—it made you laugh out loud.
Ron and Neville were eyeing Hagrid's massive cup—big enough to be a bowl for them—with envy, wishing they could drink like the adults.
"You know, Harry," Hagrid said, already a bit tipsy, "I'm just so happy. Haven't been this happy in years—not since Dumbledore took me in after I was expelled and made me gamekeeper."
"Not even when You-Know-Who died—'cause my friends died then too. Your parents, poor little Harry," Hagrid said, tears welling up, his sobs loud enough for Hermione to worry they'd draw attention from the castle.
"It's all in the past, Hagrid," Neville said comfortingly. "Harry's doing great now."
"Yeah, I'd bet even Dumbledore—or You-Know-Who—weren't as impressive as Harry at his age," Ron said confidently.
"That's true," Hagrid grinned. "Dumbledore didn't become a professor until after he graduated, at least."
"Anyway—I'm thrilled, Harry," Hagrid said, repeatedly clapping Harry's back until he swayed. "Especially knowing you'll be my neighbor—really thrilled!"
He kept emphasizing it.
"I know what the students say about me—silly old giant, eh?" Hagrid took another swig. "Living out here by the Forbidden Forest, no one to talk to."
"Don't say that, Hagrid," Hermione said quickly. "That sounds like something a Slytherin git would say. Aren't we your friends?"
"Yeah, don't talk nonsense," Ron added carelessly. "Don't you want to hear about our big adventure last night?"
Ron was itching for a new audience.
"Of course!" Hagrid laughed again. "A trial, eh? Reminds me of those old Gryffindor stories—heard Godric himself faced a fairy's trial."
"Just a legend," Ron corrected. "Like Merlin."
"Who knows? Legends aren't born from nothing," Hermione countered. "Maybe real history's hidden in those tales."
"Maybe," Ron shrugged. "But that's got nothing to do with us, right?"
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