Chapter 26
It was clear the professors either hoped—or simply assumed—that the students were among the top academic minds of their age.
After that Quidditch match, the pace of lessons ramped up significantly. Assignments piled high, and Easter break proved far less enjoyable than Christmas. There was barely a moment to relax—Hermione wouldn't allow it unless someone was reading The Twelve Uses of Dragon's Blood or practicing wand movements.
The only silver lining was that Albert seemed to be drawing strength from Hermione's intense drive. He looked more worn-out than usual, not only trying to keep up with classwork but also training relentlessly in secret—specifically, on the Unlocking Charm.
Each day, Albert sat by the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room, pointing his wand at the dormitory door, testing to see whether his current level of mastery could breach the magical barrier. Luckily, being only eleven, the professors mostly overlooked him. Even when they saw him waving his wand at the door, they never suspected him of mischief.
Aside from that, Albert was still doing his best to keep up with Hermione's studies. This turned out to be a relief for Harry and Ron—since Albert had taken the lead in reviewing lessons with her, Hermione had far less time to pester them.
Still, the workload was tremendous. The three boys spent nearly every free hour in the library, sighing, yawning, and laboring through their mountain of homework.
"I'll never remember any of this," Ron groaned one afternoon, tossing down his quill and gazing longingly out the window at the cloudless blue sky. But homework demanded obedience, and he reluctantly resumed his writing.
Harry was deeply engrossed in a passage about Wiggentree Bark from One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi when Ron suddenly whispered, "Hagrid! What are you doing in the library?"
Hagrid stood there in his massive moleskin overcoat.
"Just browsing," Hagrid said, a little too casually, piquing their curiosity immediately. "And what are you lot up to?" he added, narrowing his eyes. "Still poking around about Nicolas Flamel, I reckon?"
"Oh, we found out who he is ages ago," Ron said triumphantly. "We also know what the dog's guarding. It's the—"
"Shh!" Hagrid hissed, glancing around. "Listen—come see me later, and remember, I never promised to tell you anything. But for Merlin's sake, keep your voices down! There are things you're not meant to know yet. I told you that…"
"Alright, we'll come by later," Harry said quickly.
Albert, seated nearby, had already raised his head, eyeing Hagrid with suspicion.
In Albert's mind, Hagrid had never been the reading type, and the library was practically foreign ground for him. Something didn't sit right. A memory was stirring—something important.
A few minutes later, Albert dumped a heavy stack of books on the table with a loud thud, making Hermione jump.
"What are you doing?" she snapped, while Harry and Ron turned to him, puzzled.
Albert leaned in and whispered, "Hagrid's researching dragons. Look—Breeds of Dragons in Great Britain and Ireland, From Egg to Inferno: A Dragon Keeper's Guide… Why would he be reading these? Has he… actually gotten hold of a dragon?"
"That's impossible!" said Ron. "The Warlocks' Convention of 1709 made dragon breeding illegal. They're incredibly dangerous—not to mention impossible to hide. Even wild ones leave burns; you should see the scars Charlie's got from Romanian Ridgebacks. And live dragons—or their eggs—are Class A non-tradeable items. Even if you could find one on the black market, Hagrid couldn't afford it."
"Hagrid's always wanted a dragon," Harry recalled. "He told me the very first time we met. Maybe he actually managed to get one."
"So… what does he want with it?" Hermione asked, clearly bewildered by the turn in conversation.
"I think it's better if we just ask him," Albert concluded.
An hour later, they stood at Hagrid's hut, knocking on the wooden door. To their surprise, all the curtains were tightly drawn. Albert raised an eyebrow—that seemed more suspicious than helpful. With the windows set high and foggy, no one could see inside anyway. Drawing the curtains would only make people more curious.
"Who's there?" came Hagrid's booming voice. Only when he heard them did he allow the door to creak open, quickly shutting it behind them once they entered.
The cabin was stifling. Though the day outside was sunny and warm, the fire blazed fiercely in the hearth. Hagrid offered them tea and sandwiches, which they politely declined.
Harry, never one to waste an opportunity, began trying to coax more information from Hagrid—mainly about the magical protections guarding the Philosopher's Stone.
Under Hermione's innocent flattery, Hagrid eventually let slip that every professor had set up a defense mechanism. But Albert wasn't fooled. Hagrid might come across as honest and straightforward, but he was still a man in his sixties. There was no way a first-year student could trick him that easily. In Albert's eyes, Hagrid had revealed just enough on purpose—probably under Dumbledore's guidance.
In the original timeline, Dumbledore may have believed Quirrell was merely after the Stone itself, not that Voldemort was literally attached to the back of his head. If he had known, surely he wouldn't have allowed Harry to walk into danger like that.
After the questioning, Albert's eyes drifted to a large black egg nestled beneath the kettle in the fire. Pretending to be merely curious, he asked, "What's that?"
Hagrid turned slightly red. "Oh—that? That's—well—"
"That," Ron interrupted, crouching by the fire, "is a Class A prohibited item under the Ministry of Magic's Trade Restrictions."
"And soon to be classified as Type S," Albert added, inspecting the egg closely.
"What?" Harry blinked. "What are you two talking about?"
Seeing the confused expressions on Hermione and Harry's faces, Albert explained, "According to the Ministry's dangerous items classification system, dragon eggs fall under Category A—strictly controlled. A live dragon, especially a Firebreather, would be Type S."
"How's that possible?" asked Harry. "Every student has dragon-hide gloves, and you can buy powdered liver for a Galleon. How can something so common be strictly regulated?"
"It's simple," Albert replied. "Most of the market products come from dead dragons—especially their blood. Live dragons are a different story."
Ron turned to Hagrid. "That must've cost a fortune!"
"Won it!" Hagrid said cheerfully. "Last night. Was having a drink down at the pub, played a few rounds of cards with some stranger. Honest, he seemed real keen to part with it."
As Albert watch
ed Hagrid beam with pride, a pit formed in his stomach. This… was trouble brewing.