One Hour before Midnight, the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
The Forbidden Forest lay before them, a vast sea of shadows shifting beneath the moon's cold gaze. The trees stretched high, their skeletal branches clawing at the sky, and the night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and ancient wood. Tendrils of mist curled along the ground like restless phantoms, whispering secrets only the wind could decipher.
Harry stood at the forest's edge beside Hagrid, the massive Gamekeeper clutching his crossbow with the easy familiarity of a man well-acquainted with the dangers lurking in the darkness. Tonight, Harry served his detention—a punishment disguised as discipline but, in truth, something else entirely. Dumbledore's way of ensuring consequences without cruelty.
Hanging from Harry's belt was his staff, its polished wood glinting under the moonlight. A portkey nestled in his pocket, a silent safeguard against the unexpected. Hagrid's dog, Fang, pressed close to his master's side, ears twitching at the distant calls of nocturnal creatures.
"It ain't right, yeh know," Hagrid muttered, his voice low and gruff. "Makin' yeh come out here this late."
Harry smiled faintly, rolling his shoulders against the creeping chill. "Don't worry, Hagrid. I'm not exactly defenseless."
Hagrid's eyes softened, but he let out a heavy sigh. "Still—"
"I understand why you did it," Harry interrupted gently. "The dragon egg, I mean. You were trying to do the right thing."
Hagrid hesitated, then nodded. "Jus' wish I'd thought it through better. Should've asked someone who really knows about dragons."
Harry chuckled. "Next time, you will. And at least Orinda ended up in good hands."
They ventured deeper, the night swallowing them whole. Fog swirled around their boots, muffling their steps. Hagrid pointed out trails—this one leading to the Thestrals' grazing grounds, that one to a Mooncalf burrow. He also warned of the forbidden paths: the Centaurs' domain and the territory of Aragog's kin.
"Aragog an' his lot don't take kindly to people," Hagrid admitted. "They respect me well enough, but that don't mean they won't eat yeh."
Harry hummed in thought. "They were used as guards, once. My ancestors used them in that way. But at home, we made sure to regulate their numbers—wards, fail-safes, that sort of thing."
Hagrid raised a curious brow, but before he could comment, Fang let out a deep growl. A twig snapped somewhere to their left.
"You stay here with Fang," Hagrid ordered, already moving toward the sound. "I'll check it out."
Harry frowned. "I can—"
But Hagrid was gone, his hulking form vanishing into the trees.
Then, Fang bolted. He shot off in the opposite direction, toward the Centaur's land, his barks sharp and urgent. Swearing under his breath, Harry chased after him. His small frame and shorter legs made it difficult, and he knew better than to blindly channel magic to speed up—one wrong move and he'd slam into a tree. Instead, he reached for his staff, enlarging it with a flick of his wrist. His pupils shifted, the world sharpening into shades of silver and shadow.
Then he saw it.
A clearing bathed in ghostly light. A unicorn lay on its side, its silvery coat marred by deep crimson. And hunched over it—feeding—was a cloaked figure, its face obscured, save for the glint of hungry, unnatural eyes.
Something cold slithered down Harry's spine.
He reacted without thinking. His staff twirled in his grip, and a forceful banishment spell cracked through the air. The figure shrieked, flung backward into the darkness. The unicorn twitched, still alive but fading fast.
Gritting his teeth, Harry knelt beside it, staff hovering over the wound. He hissed in Parseltongue, the ancient language rolling from his lips as he worked the healing spell. The
A sudden snap.
Harry barely turned before something struck him—a branch hurled with unnatural force. Pain exploded at the side of his head, white-hot and blinding. He staggered, vision swimming, but the unicorn had risen, wobbling, then stumbling away into the safety of the trees.
Another attack. A slashing spell aimed at his hip. He twisted, but the blade of energy still sliced through, leaving a shallow wound that burned.
Then, he saw them. Twin pools of red beneath the hood.
A cold presence coiled around him, magic thick and suffocating. Too fast—he wouldn't be able to shield in time. The figure lunged, but Harry swung his staff like a hammer, catching the attacker in mid-air. A sickening crunch rang out as it crumpled to the ground.
A crossbow bolt whizzed past Harry's ear, sinking into the darkness where the figure had fallen. Heavy footfalls followed, and then Hagrid was beside him, crossbow reloaded, eyes scanning the shadows.
"All right there, Harry?"
The Gamekeeper asked while still looking into the dark forest. Getting joined by a centaur a second later.
"The creature left the forest for the time being Hagrid. Mister Potter did a good deed today, saving the Unicorn from certain death. Harry nodded but his head hurt. As he reeled to the side for a bit Hagrid caught him now noticing his wounds and bruises.
"You should get Mister Potter beach to the castle Hagrid"
A second presence emerged—a Centaur, his expression unreadable. "The creature has fled, Hagrid," he said, voice smooth as river stone. "Your young charge did well. He saved the unicorn."
Harry swayed slightly, blinking against the haze in his vision. Hagrid caught him before he could stumble. Only now did the cuts and bruises register fully.
"You should take him back to the castle," the Centaur advised.
Hagrid nodded. "Thanks, Firenze."
Fang reappeared, tail between his legs, and together, they hurried back to the castle. When they reached the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey fussed over Harry, healing his wounds with efficient care. A potion dulled the pain, and exhaustion weighed heavily upon him.
As he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, a quiet resolve settled in his chest.
He needed to be better. Stronger. Smarter. His staff was nice and had helped him out of many situations but the wand was more precise, he should invest more time in wand-based magic. Maybe read ahead? Order some defense books, as he had a strong suspicion that the subject at Hogwarts was not at its best right now.
Somewhere in the Nordic Sea. Azkaban Prison
Sirius Black sat hunched in the farthest corner of his dimly lit cell, the rough stone walls pressing in around him. The cold of Azkaban was not just physical; it seeped into his very bones, clawing at his sanity as the ever-present whispers of the Dementors lurked just beyond his iron-barred door. Since that fateful Halloween night, he had relived the same moments over and over, tormenting himself with the realization of his failure. James and Lily—his best friends, his family—gone, because he had been blind to the true traitor. A Rat.
He clenched his fists, his gaunt face twisting in anguish. How could they have trusted Pettigrew? How had he not seen it? And now, in his rage and grief, he had failed his godson as well. Harry. He could only pray that Dumbledore had kept his promise and ensured the boy's safety. Hagrid had reassured him, but words were hollow against the weight of his regret.
Lost in his self-recrimination, Sirius barely registered the subtle shift in the air outside his cell. A shiver ran down his spine—not the icy despair of the Dementors, but something different. The torches lining the corridor flickered, their flames dancing as if disturbed by an unseen force. Then, in an instant, a brilliant silver light erupted beyond the bars, illuminating the dark passageway. A stampede of Patroni charged forward, radiant and powerful, forcing the Dementors back with an otherworldly screech. The suffocating oppression lifted, and for the first time in years, Sirius felt something other than cold.
His mind reeled, struggling to process what was happening. His cell door rattled as precise spells dismantled the heavy wards. Moments later, dark-clad figures stepped into view, their movements swift and disciplined. Their battle armor gleamed faintly under the torchlight, sigils, and runes etched into the plating. This was no ordinary rescue. These people—whoever they were—were professionals.
One of them, a figure standing slightly apart from the others, took a step closer. "Sirius Black?"
Hearing his name spoken after so long, Sirius' hollowed eyes widened. He scrambled backward in instinctive panic, his back colliding with the rough stone wall. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his voice cracked as he rasped, "Who are you?"
"That doesn't matter," the figure replied, tone clipped and efficient. "What matters is that certain higher-ups believe you are either innocent or, at the very least, deserve a chance to defend yourself."
A soft clink echoed in the small cell as several potion vials were placed on the ground before him. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, promising warmth and healing. Beside them, a parchment rested, its edges curled slightly from the damp air. The figure continued, "These potions will help with the damage the Dementors have done. We can't take you directly, but we will create an opportunity for you. That parchment contains everything you need to know. It will self-destruct in exactly one hour. The plan begins in three. Take it or leave it—but I think a certain green-eyed boy would want you to take it."
Sirius barely heard the last words. His gaze was fixed on the parchment, his mind warring between disbelief and desperate hope. He felt as if he had been plunged into a dream—was this real? Was he hallucinating? But the parchment was real. The potions were real. He reached out with shaking hands, his fingers closing around the vials. The cold that had been his constant companion for over a decade began to ebb away as he downed the first potion, warmth spreading through his veins like fire against ice.
He looked up, ready to ask another question, but the figures were gone, their departure as silent as their arrival. A ghost of a breeze was all that remained, as if they had never been there at all. The silence around him was deafening—too silent.
Beyond his cell, unseen by him, the operation was in full motion. The special forces team had begun erecting complex wards to mask their magical signatures and conceal the extraction. Spells woven with expert precision blanketed the prison, ensuring no trace of their presence remained.
One of them, a Mind Arts Specialist, worked quickly to plant fabricated memories within the minds of key guards—memories of a brutal fight between Sirius Black and another prisoner, a diversion to serve as their cover story. No one would question the disappearance of an Azkaban inmate when chaos reigned.
Further down the corridor, the team reached another cell. Through the iron bars, piercing eyes met theirs—Augustus Rookwood, a former Unspeakable turned Death Eater, his expression calculating even in chains.
The team leader, a woman with the quiet authority of someone who had led many such operations, stepped forward. Her voice was calm but firm as she spoke. "Her Majesty sends her regards."
A sharp hiss followed as a dart shot from a blowpipe, embedding itself in Rookwood's neck. His eyes widened in shock before his body went limp, the tranquilizing agent doing its work. One of the operatives cast a quick diagnostic charm and nodded.
"Everything looks good, Ma'am."
The leader gave a curt nod. "Team, the clock is ticking. Let's clean up and extract the target."
"Aye, Ma'am."
In a matter of minutes, they would be gone, leaving behind only whispers of their presence and a well-crafted illusion. The only beings or better to be called non-beings that would be able to tell more would be the Dementors.
After the army of patroni, they were reluctant to speak out on their own. Ministry investigators would believe the word of the guards and prisoners more. Who would believe a Dementor anyway?
Two days after the MI7's mission at Azkaban, Great Hall Hogwarts
The Great Hall of Hogwarts was unusually silent that morning, a stark contrast to the usual chatter and clinking of cutlery against plates. Students and faculty alike were absorbed in the latest edition of the Daily Prophet, their faces ranging from shock to deep contemplation.
FIGHTS IN AZKABAN THANKS TO MALFUNCTIONING CELL DOORS. ONE INMATE DEAD, ANOTHER MISSING. DOUBTS ABOUT THE GUILT OF SIRIUS BLACK.
Dear Readers,
An express owl arrived at our offices early this morning carrying startling information. A reliable source from within Azkaban prison has reported that a violent altercation broke out between two high-security inmates late last night. The prisoners involved were none other than Augustus Rookwood and Sirius Black.
According to our informant, the argument began when Rookwood taunted Black, insinuating that he was too foolish to have ever posed a real threat to the Death Eaters. He jeered that Black's supposed friends had abandoned him to rot in prison, and that Peter Pettigrew had done an exceptional job framing him for crimes he never committed.
If Rookwood was indeed referring to the very same Peter Pettigrew who was believed to have been murdered by Black on that fateful Halloween night—the same night that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named attacked the Potters—then we are left to question what truly transpired. A deeper investigation into trial records has yielded a disturbing discovery: no trial was ever held for Sirius Black. We were only able to find the transportation papers sentencing him directly to Azkaban without due process.
Has our justice system failed one of its own?
Sirius Black, the last living heir of the noble House of Black, remains a potential contender for its lordship. Lord Malfoy, who currently sits as Regent of the Black family in the Wizengamot, along with Minister Fudge, has yet to respond to inquiries regarding this revelation.
After the Azkaban wardens were alerted to the fight, they arrived too late to intervene. Augustus Rookwood was found being Kissed by a Dementor, leaving behind nothing but an empty husk. As for Black, he was nowhere to be found. A thorough search of the premises provided no indication of his whereabouts, leading to the chilling conclusion that the man might have escaped.
Director Amelia Bones of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement issued a brief statement confirming that there was no legal trial for Sirius Black. In accordance with the law, he is no longer classified as an escaped murderer but instead as a potential suspect who was wrongfully imprisoned.
What happens next? We at the Daily Prophet will keep you informed.
Harry set down his copy of the newspaper, carefully masking the satisfaction that curled at the edges of his lips. Years of practice in Occlumency allowed him to maintain his neutral expression, but inside, he was thrilled—his plan had worked.
Across the table, Sayuri tilted her head, studying him with her sharp amethyst eyes. "Everything okay, Harry?"
He blinked, feigning mild surprise. "Huh? Yeah, Sayuri. Just thinking... Imagine spending over a decade in that hellhole. Innocent. Stuck with all those deranged Death Eaters."
She shuddered, shaking her head. "No, I can't. And I could definitely do without that kind of experience in the near future. Speaking of stress relief, how about a quick spar before Charms? Get some energy out?"
A smirk flickered across his face. "Sounds like a plan."
Neither of them noticed the sharp gaze of their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor lingering on them as they left the Great Hall.
Just minutes later
Minutes later, they slipped into an abandoned storage room tucked away in the Ravenclaw Tower. The space had been cleared and fitted with mats, their personal dueling ground. Here, they could train without interruption, testing their skills against each other in private.
Harry wielded a staff, its enchanted wood humming faintly with the stinging hex woven into it. Sayuri, on the other hand, held a wooden sword of equal enchantment, its craftsmanship reflecting the rigorous training of her family's martial traditions. The hex ensured that every strike left a tangible sting, making every misstep painfully clear.
From the moment they clashed, Harry was on the defensive. He had only begun learning on his own, whereas Sayuri had been trained in her family's combat style since childhood. It showed. She moved like flowing water, precise and unrelenting. Their first session had left him covered in bruises, and today was proving no different.
Every opening he left was ruthlessly exploited, her strikes landing faster than he could counter. There was something almost sadistic in the way she fought—her amethyst eyes glinting with excitement, a small, knowing smirk tugging at her lips as she punished each of his mistakes.
Despite himself, he enjoyed it. No one else pushed him this hard. Even his classmates in DADA dueling exercises couldn't match Sayuri's skill and speed. Every session forced him to adapt, to think, and to grow. And they were first years for Merlin's sake. that even one of his classmates could do as such was a small miracle.
By the time they finished, both were panting. Sayuri had only the faintest sheen of sweat on her brow, while Harry looked downright battered. They sat on the floor, catching their breath. Sayuri, still in her skirt and shirt, sipped at her drink, watching Harry as he examined the fresh welts covering his arms. He had swapped his robes for sweatpants and a t-shirt, now speckled with faint hex marks.
"That was intense as usual," he muttered, rubbing one of the more painful spots.
Sayuri chuckled, sipping again. "You're improving, but you're still way too stiff. Your upper body moves like a stone wall. You need to be fluid, like water. Maybe I should find you a real Bojutsu instructor. You'd understand the concept better."
Harry sighed, stretching his arms. "That'd be great, actually. I mean, I'm trying my best here, but you still beat me up most of the time. And you smile while doing it. It's like you enjoy hitting me."
Her lips twitched as she hid a chuckle behind her hand. "What?"
He raised a brow. "Oh, you so enjoy it."
Sayuri glanced at her tempus charm and smirked. "Oh look at the time—we should get to Charms."
Harry rolled his eyes, picking himself up off the floor. "You totally dodged that accusation."
One hour After Curfew, ForbiddenThird Floor Corridor
Harry studied the sleeping form of the Gateguard. A Cerberus—here, in Hogwarts. It was an impressive guardian, sure, but hardly an insurmountable challenge. The door had been locked, but a simple first-year spell had taken care of that. As for the three-headed beast, any student taking their NEWTs in Care of Magical Creatures would know how to handle it. The trick was keeping it unaware of your presence; once distracted, it could be lulled to sleep with music. That was why most owners placed special wards to make their Cerberus immune to sound or responsive only to a specific tune.
This one, however, had no such protections. A quick animation spell on a trumpet he'd found in the castle had been enough. As the enchanted instrument continued to play a fragment of the national anthem on an endless loop, the great beast remained peacefully asleep, allowing Harry to slip past and reach the trapdoor.
Expanding his magical senses, he immediately detected something that felt out of place. The obvious trapdoor on the floor was almost too easy to notice, which made him look deeper. His focus sharpened, leading him to a section of the wall behind the hellhound that didn't quite match the rest of the room. Moving carefully along the wall, he skirted the sleeping creature, his steps silent, his attention fixed on his discovery.
Once at the wall, he pulled out his staff and performed a quick identification ritual, using a drop of his own blood to check for any hidden dangers. When the spell came back negative, he took a deep breath and stepped forward. Just like that first time he had entered the magical world, he passed through effortlessly.
A sudden pull at his navel sent him spinning. Colors rushed past in a dizzying swirl, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut. Then—impact. He hit the ground hard, the force knocking the air from his lungs.
As he slowly regained his bearings, he opened his eyes to see a hooded ghost standing before him. The spectral figure's features were hidden in shadow, its robe flowing in a way that obscured any hint of gender. The cave surrounding them was vast, the stone appearing eerily similar to that of the wall he had just passed through. Ghostly blue flames flickered to life, casting long shadows across the cavern's walls. The space was immense—twice the size of the Great Hall, yet empty, its vastness echoed in the stillness.
"Curious that a first-year would find their way here," the ghost mused, its voice smooth and devoid of clear gender. "Then again, I managed it in my first year, though I began as a fifth-year."
Harry blinked, momentarily thrown by that statement. "Uh—excuse me, but where exactly is 'here'?"
The ghost studied him for a moment before nodding. "You stand in the very foundation of Hogwarts. Long ago, this place was a wellspring of ancient magic, one that powered many of the castle's enchantments. But as the centuries passed, the magic subsided, flowing back into the earth. With the declining number of students and the loss of old druidic rites used to renew Hogwarts' magic, parts of the castle became unstable. Before my life ended, I returned here, to the place where the second part of my journey began. I bound my very essence into the wards to help stabilize the flow of magic." The ghost tilted its head slightly. "How did you manage to get here?"
Harry sighed, a little dramatically. Why was it always him answering the questions first?
"I fell through a wall in the third corridor while investigating something Headmaster Dumbledore mentioned."
The ghost hummed, pacing in the air. "Investigating? As a first-year? Disturbing. We are currently about a hundred and ten feet below the dungeons." It paused, studying Harry again. "Yet I can sense that you are more attuned to your magic than I was in my fifth year. You perform the rituals, don't you?"
Harry merely nodded, watching as the ghost continued to drift in thought.
"That is good," it murmured. "It was nearly a year ago—perhaps the start of your school year—that someone tampered with the castle's wards, disrupting the balance and creating that rift. Fortunately, the protections I set before coming down here—to die—ensured that those who lacked the proper magic were unable to interfere further."
Harry listened intently, absorbing every word. After a brief silence, he hesitantly asked, "So… how can I help? I mean, I want to, but I'm kind of stuck here, aren't I?"
The ghost let out a faint, ghostly chuckle. "I can send you back. I still control the wards here, even in death. My essence is bound to them. But before you go, let me explain what you must do." It paused, then added, "I assume you were planning to navigate the obstacle course in the third corridor?"
Harry frowned. "Obstacle course?"
The ghost chuckled again. "Ah. You will understand soon enough."
As the ghost began explaining what little it could sense through the rift, Harry committed every detail to memory. He would need to explore this so-called obstacle course at a later time. More importantly, though, he had a mission now: to prepare the ritual necessary to stabilize Hogwarts. Thanks to the ghost's guidance, he knew he had roughly two years to restore the castle's connection to the ley lines. If he failed, the consequences would be dire. The wild magic running through the wards would become more unpredictable. If this anomaly was minor, the ghost had warned, things would only escalate.
"One last thing, Mister Potter." The ghost's voice took on a solemn tone. "There is a chamber in the dungeons where my colleagues and I once gathered to safeguard this ancient magic. Within it, you will find a tome—one that contains the rituals needed for purification, rerouting, and restoration. I regret that I cannot aid you further. My presence is needed here." The ghost hesitated, then added, "You may wish to seek help, or you may not. That choice is yours. Best of luck, Mister Potter."
Harry opened his mouth, a hundred more questions on the tip of his tongue—but before he could speak, the ghost flicked its hand, and in an instant, he was ejected from the chamber.
He landed unceremoniously on the fifth floor, his mind spinning. Great. Another monumental task added to his plate.
As if dealing with a Dark Lord and managing the animal sanctuary weren't enough.
March 1992, Slytherin vs Ravenclaw
Harry sat astride his Nimbus, surveying the pitch below. The match had only just begun, the shrill whistle of Madam Hooch still echoing in his mind. He had momentarily lost sight of the Snitch, but in the blink of an eye, it flickered back into his peripheral vision.
The sky overhead was dark and heavy with clouds, promising rain at any moment. Glancing back at the game, he spotted a Slytherin Chaser ruthlessly body-checking a Ravenclaw player. An idea formed instantly. He honed in on the Chaser, who was advancing towards the Ravenclaw hoops, and without hesitation, he dropped into a steep dive from his elevated position, mimicking the hunting technique of a falcon.
Wind whipped against his face as he flattened himself against his broom, his vision narrowing into a tunnel-like focus. He locked onto the Quaffle cradled in the Chaser's arm and, at the last second, punched it free. As the ball tumbled through the air, he pushed downward in a rapid spin, executing a moonsault before striking the Quaffle mid-air with the twig-end of his broom.
The Slytherin Chaser barely had time to register what had happened before Harry clipped him in passing, destabilizing him just enough to leave him vulnerable. A second later, a Bludger slammed into the unbalanced player, the sickening crack of ribs reaching Harry's ears. He winced slightly at the sound—but couldn't suppress a smirk.
Reassuming his position high above the field, he repeated variations of the maneuver each time he caught a Slytherin playing dirty. But rather than forcing them to change tactics, his interference only made them double down on their aggression. It didn't matter. Ravenclaw's Beaters had adapted quickly, working seamlessly with Harry's disruptive playstyle.
After all, they were Ravenclaws. They had studied their opponents, analyzed past matches, and formulated counter-strategies accordingly. The brutish approach might work against Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, but not against them.
It was no surprise when Harry finally caught the Snitch, sealing the game with a staggering 280-point lead over Slytherin.
Early April 1992, Hagrids Hut
Harry gazed at the man before him with deep respect.
"Mister Scamander, it's truly an honor to meet you."
The ninety-seven-year-old Magizoologist and renowned author returned Harry's gaze with a kind smile.
"Likewise, Mister Potter. Hagrid has already told me about the incident with the dragon. I had always believed that a mother dragon's milk was beneficial, but learning that it could hinder growth is quite disturbing." He frowned slightly as he set his worn leather suitcase on the table, instinctively brushing back a Bowtruckle in his pocket before it could jump out.
"To be honest, we magicals still don't fully understand many of the creatures we share this world with," Newt admitted, sipping his tea. "But a crippled dragon that survives is preferable to a dead one. With the right guidance, some of these issues can be mitigated—not completely healed, but at least they wouldn't pass the ailment on."
Newt scribbled notes onto a piece of parchment before looking up with a hopeful expression.
"Would you be willing to share that knowledge? I'd love to include it in the new edition of my book."
Harry hesitated. "I'd have to think about it. As it stands, such research isn't even permitted in Great Britain. Too many restrictions on magic and breeding. Some creatures need our help before they go extinct, yet we're bound by international law."
Newt nodded in understanding, allowing Harry to continue.
"I might be biased as a Speaker of Serpent and Dragon Tongue, but perhaps there's even a way to communicate with all sentient beasts." He sighed. "Unfortunately, creatures like the Horned Serpent and the Basilisk have terrible reputations. With some inquisitive minds and skilled Arithmancers, we might find a way to make them less dangerous while allowing them to live freely. I mean, those Basilisk farms in magical Russia—absolute animal cruelty."
Newt nodded slowly. "They did try working with a Parselmouth from India to improve conditions, but they never found a way to block the gaze except by blinding the creatures."
Harry exhaled. "I know. But maybe I will." Then, shaking his head, he refocused. "Let's return to the main topic. Hagrid mentioned you had something you needed my help with, Mister Scamander?"
"Please, call me Newt—if that's all right with you, Mister Potter?"
"Then it's Harry," he replied with a quick grin.
Newt flicked his wand, opening the suitcase on the floor. "If you'd follow me?"
Harry nodded, stepping into the enchanted space. After a tour of the various habitats, they entered a vast cave through a small Chinese pagoda. The moment they stepped inside, a deep sense of unease prickled Harry's instincts. His body reacted instinctively, shifting into his drake form.
Newt observed the transformation with awe before quickly explaining.
"You must be sensing the wards. That's part of the problem. I have two Runespoors—one elderly, one fully grown—but for the past few days, they've been fighting constantly. My wards can take a beating, but if this keeps up, I may have to separate them—or worse, rehome one—and my research isn't finished. If you can help, I'd be most grateful."
Still in his drake form, Harry scanned the surroundings before calling out, amplifying his voice with magic.
"I hear there are two serpents in this place. Where are you?"
A chorus of six voices answered from opposite sides of the cave.
"A Speaker?"
A deep rumbling followed, and soon, two enormous three-headed serpents emerged, each eyeing Harry—one in his hybrid form—and Newt.
Turning to Newt. "Newt, how exactly did you happen to prevent them from biting off the critic's head?"
The Magizoologist smiled. "Intent-based ward carved into the collar of all three heads. I can show you how to do it later"
Harry nodded, then refocused on the two Runespoors, who were hissing and rattling against the magical barrier keeping them apart. Their voices were aggressive, but not coherent words—just raw frustration.
Extending his staff, Harry struck the ground, sending a controlled tremor through the cave.
"Enough! Are you mindless mutts who snarl and spit, or are you serpents?"
The six heads snapped toward him. One of the elder Runespoor's critical heads sneered.
"And what does a hatchling-chick hybrid have to say?"
Harry smirked. With a single hiss, he sent a greenish bolt straight at the head, putting it to sleep instantly.
"As you can see, I'm more than capable of handling you. Now—can someone explain what the real problem is?"
What followed was one of the most convoluted conversations Harry had ever experienced in his eleven years of life. It took ten minutes just to get both Runespoors to agree on the nature of the dispute. The critical and dreamer heads constantly bickered until the planner head intervened—only for the cycle to repeat itself. Newt and Harry watched, bemused, as the argument looped several times before Harry put an end to it.
One by one, he asked each of the six heads for their take. Five out of six gave conflicting answers. Given that there were only two creatures, the situation bordered on absurd.
Finally, Harry sighed and turned to Newt. "Well, I'm not entirely certain, but I think your younger Runespoor either wants to see the world or—more likely—needs its own cave because it wants to lay eggs." He smirked. "The Dreamer keeps ranting about building an army of minions to overthrow 'the old geezer.'"
Newt took rapid notes, watching Harry parley with the serpents—even if he couldn't understand a word. "Hmm. I'll carve out another cave and separate them. Honestly, that would have been my approach anyway. Runespoors aren't known for being straightforward."
Even Newt chuckled at that, then turned back to Harry with a smile.
"Nevertheless, Harry, you've done me a great service. How can I repay you?"
Harry shifted back into his human form, considering for a moment.
"If it's not too much trouble, I'd love to learn how to create something like your suitcase. I may need to expand Potter Island in the coming years—if I find more strays like Hagrid's dragon chick. I have the physical space, and with the help of Erebos—and maybe later Orinda—there's enough magical power. But without proper expansion and atmospheric charms, I might run into problems."
Newt nodded. "I must say, Harry, I had a feeling you'd ask for something like that. I noticed how fascinated you were during the tour." He smiled. "I'll dig up some notes on the charms and enchantments and return to you. Perhaps I could even visit in the summer?"
Harry considered the offer before nodding. "That would be helpful. You could see what I've planned and advise me on caring for all the creatures on the island. My elves and the Potter knowledge are valuable, but some things might need modernization."
Newt raised a brow in mock surprise. "Modernization in the wizarding world? Is that even possible?"
Both laughed at that.
Harry sighed, already thinking about the arrangements he'd need to make for the summer.
"Oh, and Harry," Newt added suddenly, "I might have something for you. I have an appointment in Nicaragua—strange things are happening there. And, well… people say I might just be the best Magizoologist around."
Harry's curiosity piqued. "That sounds amazing. I mean, the charms and enchantments alone would be a huge help, but I'd never say no to a gift."
He stumbled slightly over Newt's generosity. Growing up in a world of seasoned politicians and courtiers had taught him much about people's natural instinct to hoard knowledge and resources. But Newt Scamander? He seemed to be an entirely different breed.
A/N:
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